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Rating: They sell a comic, which, after all, is only a
shape of a comic.
You buy a comic, which, then, you only buy because
on the cover it says "Moore".
But you've never, ever heard of
this light.
And Moore thought of it as
an essay,
a monologue,
but without images, which probably
someone decided to add,
due to money gains,
And if the operation doesn't always succeed, here you must thank God:
some pages alone would justify the expense.
But this is only later, because
at first,
you have to sweat.
You read the first page, turn over and face the second one.
Before turning your gaze to the right and starting the third, you rewind, go back to the first, and start again.
And you do it again.
And again.
And by the third or fourth time you start reading the first two pages, you curse your purchase, Moore's name, and you surrender to the incomprehension by entering the syntactic labyrinth of the third.
Then, as if by magic, on the stream of consciousness of the Bard of Northampton, you start to tune in and gather.
Then you understand and finally suppose. "This thing must have been written like this":
The Bard, a dinner of pizza with mushrooms, psilocybin dripping with satiety, in an apartment prison emptied of human trinkets simulacra and testimonies, travels space/mind thoughts in front of a turned-off television.
Reflections on high soap, prisons of time cathodified in four-thirds of curved glass, electromagnetic tumor waves distributing tsunamis of useless knowledge travel in the air invisibly.
Plastic tube writing in hand, the author, with drugs and depression pinballing in the brain, throws everything onto paper and proudly delights. Of himself, for himself, only with him.
And then that's enough because I am not Moore, and you are not me reading Moore. But Moore continues. He does it better, but continues.
Getting through the maze takes effort but rewards.
No new truth at the end of reading, no adventure lived, no princess saved, no tights wrinkled by heroic feats.
Just the word, chasing an idea. It reaches it and makes it its own until it surpasses it, and brings the same to become the predator while it transforms into prey. Elusive, evading, unattainably clear in its mystical dilemma.
One either hates it or sacrifices goats to it.
It's not a comic, it's not literature, it's not the usual Moore, it's nothing. And in the end, it's everything. "The" "Everything", The Omniscient Father speaks, you can't change the channel.
Closed the volume, at the end of communication, out of the eternal cosmos/eden, voice verb and light of God, you return to living, remote in hand, your advertisements.
Have mercy on these few lines, quicker and easier would be to talk about it as the bold inclined here to the right follows: It's one of those things that, afterwards, you are a different thing, while it stays there, waiting for you to pick it up, to be transformed into something different again. When you want, as it wants ; saying all you should know in a banality that sometimes is also the only possible truth.
But yesterday I saw the word; those of you who know will understand. And therefore, may it show mercy.
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