Over the world at night hell rises. The first thing that happens is it disfigures space; it
makes everything more cramped and more massive and unscaleable. Details
disappear and objects lose their features, becoming squat and indistinct; how strange
that by day they may be spoken of as 'beautiful' or 'useful'; now they look like shapeless
bodies: hard to guess what they'd be for. Everything is hypothetical in hell. All that
daytime heterogeneity of form, the presence of colours, shades, reveals itself to be
utterly in vain - what purpose could possibly be served by beige upholstery, by floral
wallpaper, by tassels? What difference does green make to a dress slung over the
back of a chair? It's difficult to understand the covetous gaze that fell upon it as it clung
to its hanger in the shop window. There are no buttons or hooks or clasps now; fingers
in the dark find only vague bulges, rough patches, lumps of hard matter.
The next thing hell does is drag you out of sleep. You can kick and scream; hell is
implacable. Sometimes it provides disturbing images, frightening or mocking - a
decapitated head, a beloved body, covered in blood, human bones in ashes - yes, yes,
hell likes to shock. But more often than not it awakes without standing on ceremony -
your eyes open onto darkness, launching a stream of consciousness; your gaze, aimed
at nothing, is its advance guard. The nocturnal brain is a Penelope unravelling the
cloth of meaning diligently woven during the day. Sometimes it's a single thread,
sometimes more; complex designs break down into prime factors - warp and weft; weft
falls by the wayside, and only straight parallel lines remain, the barcode of the world.
Then you realize: night gives the world back its natural, original appearance, without
sugar-coating it; day is a flight of fancy, light a slight exception, an oversight, a
disruption of the order. The world in fact is dark, almost black. Motionless and cold.