Når virkeligheten immiterer kunsten.
Jeg husker noe… for jeg skrev det ned.
Drømte jeg det? Skrev han ikke feil i sion første setning av sin bedreviten?
Leiter etter bevis, men alt er vekk. Lukter jeg gass? (gaslighting)
Så finner jeg—>
La meg sitere 1984:
«In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston’s arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building»
Når virkeligheten imiterer kunsten. Spennende. Ironisk til og med. Noe å tenke tanker om ting rundt. Er du ikke enig Espen Thoresen Hværsaagod-Takkskalduha?
Har du noen eksempler på at livet imiterer kunsten?
Posted on august 30, 2017, in Kvasi-intellektuell svada and tagged 1984, Dagblæ, Dagblæh, Espen Thoresen Hværsaagod-Takkskalduha, memory hole, Minnehull. Bookmark the permalink. Legg igjen en kommentar.