The wretch of the sun / Michael Cisco. - First edition. - 272 pages ; 23 cm
Ghosts exist in imagination, which is real. A story needs a listener or reader. Ghosts, as I have been saying, appear to need someone to whom to appear. So we discover the story of the suicides, and we solve the riddle alongside the narrating busy body of the story, and bury the bones together in one grave; the disturbances cease. But a house once haunted will always be haunted; it isn't the disturbance but the story that haunts it. The haunted house draws attention to the secret it keeps like a master who teases his pupils with unanswerable riddles. Or like secret police, who can't be entirely effective if they are entirely secret. These aren't questions that contain their own answers, like math problems. I do not have the answer any more than you do, because the answer isn't in the question, the answer is to leave behind the idea that a question is a door that an answer pulls finally shut. Once we've dutifully recited to the last syllable every thing we know, we are chastened or even taken aback by the paltry incommensurability of what we've just said with the haunted wealth that extends within and without us in all directions. At that moment, the suggestive ambivalence of a story will have to seem truer than the abbreviation of a hollow answer.