Among my earliest memories. I am in a hospital bed. My left hand begins to tingle. Then it opens. It stops belonging to me and becomes a thing of the world; but not just any thing: in my hand the world manifests itself as a whole. Things enter my hand, are thrown into it as in their origin; and from my hand the world in turn is given birth. These are words, and therefore something superficial and inadequate; they linger at the margin of what belongs to a different dimension.

We are convinced, after all, that the meaning of the world must be expressed through words. That it is to work out a theory: something to do with seeing and saying, in good order, what has been seen. Of creating an architecture of the world in which to place ourselves. But the essence is neither in the word nor in the sight. More than theory, it is about esthesia. And, deeper, of anesthesia.