As if things are somehow there behind a veil of signification, or else, not things but their absence in the place where they ought to be, and so on. To peel away the signs and find the reality, the signified in all its fearful sublimity behind their ghostly doubles, behind the unrelenting mind - something like this is one of the aims of art, as if it were a bullfight and you want to feel the horn graze your flesh as it flashes by - but what you take to be the real is not it at all, it is the act of signification, the only thing unrepresentable in a world of signs. The same experience, you say, can be interpreted differently and you want to find the words which will draw its anchor, set it in motion, release it to the currents sweeping over on all sides. But the experience is nothing but interpretation running against its own grain, making things of it, where none are intended.