The song of janus
There is an outdated conversation that occurs in the literature of different times, voices that speak and answer each other over time, like echoes, or like the responses we rehearse for a ghost.
On one hand, Louise May Alcott, the author of Little Women. On the other, Walter Benjamin, delving into the ruins of the nineteenth century, to understand the forms of the twentieth century. Over there Goethe’s Young Werther, here Marguerite Duras and her soliloquies on writing; the memory exercises of Georges Perec, and the pure present of Clarice Lispector.
We write when we read, we read when we look, and we also hear the voice of a text, mixed with our own voice. When touching two images or two texts, or an image and a word, sometimes sparks fly, creating a new thing. That line of friction, sometimes almost imperceptible or as thin as the edge of a sheet of paper, is Janus’ territory.

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