Even if your everyday persona has to be a necessary construction, there’s no end to the depth of experience, even as you’re searching for an ever elusive truth. It can be almost shamanistic in the right hands. Seeing through things doesn’t have to be depressing. But accepting artifice can be therapeutic, even instructive. Wilson is such a deep reader, he finds it leads to artifice everywhere he looks. He contemplates Schopenhauer’s definition of music, he unpacks the weird sublime of David Lynch movies, he marvels at the impeccable persona of Cary Grant (and the Archie Leach he left behind), and he looks for the satisfactions of fatherhood, even as he finds he gets the best response from his daughter when he’s at his most manic. For a book about fakery, Wilson looks for truth everywhere.
0 kommentar(er)
