The world as one never-ending web of reference.
Everything begins when you smell a book like the first contact that invites you to understand its essence. And after this first approach, as you venture yourself through its pages, have you ever felt the urge to follow Ariadne’s thread and find your way out of the labyrinth? Every work of art is cluttered with secret intertextualities. What’s more, each point of inflection of the thread in the maze represents intertextuality. This is the secret life of books! Books are made up of a myriad of other hidden books, of subterranean intellectual currents, of characters more real than their authors. But no matter how accurate and real all these cultural elements can be, they always become fiction when permeated by a writer’s imagination, who is always bound to a given historical and cultural context.
I like to linger around the pages of a book with the torch of plurality wielded because I recognize that a literary work must be open to multiple interpretations and, therefore, poses nothing but dead-end labyrinths. Like an atheist that accepts a Cosmos without a God, I accept relativity by venturing in a space journey into the literary universe. To pursue the authenticity of a novel is nothing but an illusion that all readers like to believe. Let me tell you: you’ll never get out of the labyrinth! Not even writers have total control over the fictional plot or maze they’ve created, and that’s why they’re the first to get caught up in constant battles with the Minotaur that patrols every turning point of the labyrinth. Ultimately, the writer also fails to grasp all the layers of meaning that their text can contain and inevitably gets lost in their entanglement. How could it be any different? The world is one never-ending web of reference, and we are mere textual threads.