These fragments and letters are epistolary grenades, fragments of finitude, auto-autopsies, in which Artaud’s pen — filled with ink or blood or shit — became a scalpel with which he incised (inscribed) himself, forcepping his memories, retracting his theories, scissoring his fears in the reflection of the page; so much so that his auto-consumption resembled Michel Lotito’s ingestion of bicycles, televisions and even a Cessna 150 airplane — after all, there is nothing more indigestible than the self.
letters to an other
By Steve Finbow.
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