Reading Derrida

It’s like stumbling through the front door of what appeared to be a cottage in my neighborhood. I pass a series of rooms along an uncannily protracted corridor paved with parchment. In one room, a couple argues, in another, children at play. No one notices my presence and it is difficult to tell whether I am the spectre or it is they. Finally, at the end, I find a little man behind a curtained closet writing at his desk. I ask if he is responsible for the corridor’s paper trail, but like the others he does not respond. It seems the wizard at the end of this yellow brick road has no gifts to give (and, quite possibly, that is his raison d’etre).