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The page that was blank to begin with is now crossed from top to bottom with tiny black characters - letters, words, commas, exclamation marks - and its because of them the page is said to be legible. But a kind of uneasiness, a feeling close to nausea, an irresolution that stays my hand - these make me wonder: do these black marks add up to reality? The white of the paper is an artifice that’s replaced the translucency of the parchment and the ocher surface of the clay tablets; but the ocher and the translucency and the witness may all possess more reality than the signs that mar them.
- Jean Genet, Prisoner of Love
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Review: Two Coats of Paint
