You can't try to comprehend and appreciate any kind of art. Art wants to cuddle up to us. Its nature is so completely pure and self-sufficient that it doesn't like it when you pursue it. It punishes whoever approaches it trying to grasp it.
You can't try to comprehend and appreciate any kind of art. Art wants to cuddle up to us. Its nature is so completely pure and self-sufficient that it doesn't like it when you pursue it. It punishes whoever approaches it trying to grasp it.
That moment, when you gaze at this page and then drift off and stare at nothing in particular until that little urge to reread the pieces pulls you back from wherever you have been transported, is precious. And this is just Part I. (Not a spoiler; we are told Fritz is dead right from the start.)