‘Many people believe language is a means of understanding, an instrument with the aid of which we can say what we think we have to say. That’s wrong. The violin is an instrument, the pen too if need be. Music and language are oceans. You don’t communicate with the aid of an ocean.’
What is our own? What is the other? What divides me from you? From the rest of the world? On close inspection, every reassuring clarity disappears, especially as this insatiable first person constantly imbibes little bites of the outside world via her sensory organs, immediately recycling them into material for thoughts and life.
With derisive lust and sobriety unclouded by illusion, Anne Weber examines the miraculous workings of the First Person, that innermost recycling machine. Reflection, fable and dream come together in her prose with fantastic lightness of touch.