The text is a fetish object, and this fetish desires me. The text chooses me, by a whole disposition of invisible screens, selective baffles: vocabulary, references, readability, etc.; and, lost in the midst of a text (not behind it, like a deus ex machina) there is always the other, the author.
The Text is an autonomous object that
creates itself, within a chosen premise and functions independently
of its creator, marking a territory— a `site of bliss'—in
the process. Readers have no choice but to engage with
the text on its own terms. The text takes on different
dimensions once it is crafted from its pre-textual phase
and is seemingly delivered as a tangible form with meaning.
Such a text has no aporias but forces itself upon its readers.
Those who access this text are formally designated as readers
but turn out to be passive listeners. Such a text is a
rarity and its creator is a craftsperson who has truly
earned his due.
Edgar Allan Poe's short story "The
Cask of Amontillado" turns out to be such a text that
functions like a predator seeking out its prey in its readers.
The alluring text itself is the bait and an offering of
pleasure is the first principle it works on. Readers have
no alternative but to succumb to the temptation of a peep
into the pleasures that are `unknown,' but are glimpsed
at the reading of the first line.
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