This story walks the line between fable and philosophy complete with an unreliable mustached peasant. It poses questions about the nature of love, the beloved and the lover, the object and the subject. There is an alchemic quality to the story that leaves the reader pondering questions like, what did that mean, and do I believe this story-teller? When the narrator reveals “that we are nothing but molecules of being completely cut off from each other, and that in order to make existence bearable we have been inventing fictions since the dawn of time, fooling ourselves that something like “love” existed, when in fact the only thing that exists are our skin and bones,” the reader deftly moves with her through the worlds of prosaic experience and ideas. I’m reminded of the Calvino novel, Invisible Cities, a wonderful mix of fiction and geography of the world. If you like Calvino, you’ll love this story. If you are not familiar with him, give this story a try here at Identity Theory.
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