There is something mysterious in what an animal tries to tell you. Everyone who has had a cat or a dog knows that you tell them something and that they tell you something. With effort: not always they understand us, not always we understand them. Some time you have to make guesses and try to map a mind different from yours. A way for a dog to say “I want to play with you” or “I want you to take me for a walk” is to disturb your present frame of activity. If you read a book he may bark, or come in front of you with one of his toys. The second option is very clear and resembles very much our ways of communicating. The first is often used by toddlers and also by adults who are too shy to make explicit request when they know they might be refused. But behind these specific request there are worlds of moods, feelings, reasoning also that may or may not be deciphered. They belong to a universe you can interpret a little, but you will never really be able to charter. Same thing happens for humans, you will never know really other people’s universe. But there is a difference: the existence of language. Language allow us to put up a façade, to cover your garbled intimacies with a “presentation”, which is only a little percentage of your real inner workings, motives, feelings. This does not happen with animals. And this is the reason for which their world is fascinating in their mysteriousness. A mysteriousness that is not a lie, something that belongs to the reality of life but eludes representations. Chagall’s animals perhaps, hints, not mechanical blowups of a naturalist.
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Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
--Samuel Beckett