The image. The explanation

Where did all the stars go? What used to be considered a hole in the sky is now known to astronomers as a dark molecular cloud. Here, a high concentration of dust and molecular gas absorb practically all the visible light emitted from background stars. The eerily dark surroundings help make the interiors of molecular clouds some of the coldest and most isolated places in the universe.

This cloud of consciousness has obsessed my imagination since I was a boy. Thought floating about a strange planet. Thought needing company. Disembodied thought as sinister.

When ever I wake up at night and have difficulty returning to the warm and delightful cousin of death, my body often slips into sleep without my consciousness. I become two: my mind is here, my body is gone; I'm up, my body is down. Though I'm thinking, I see and hear nothing. I'm very much alone in the dark. Strangely enough, the darkness doesn't bother me at all. Indeed, it is a calm state to be in—kind of like a sensory deprivation tank. What worries me, what makes me panic is the fear that my body may not return from sleep, that it may finally slip into some dangerous depth I cannot reach. The get my body back is a struggle: I yell, I pull, I shove, I scream. It usually takes three tries for the body to return. I open my eyes and ears—the pillows, the bed, the room, the city, the world, the galaxy, the universe.

My body wanted to go; my mind forced to it to remain close. My mind is the sinister Companion of the astronaut it's imprisoned on this strange planet.

I CRASHED INTO SUSAN SONTAG'S planet several months ago while on my way to the distant galaxy of Baudelaire (with a scheduled stop in Walter Benjamin's solar system); and to my surprise I have found the geography, the air, the sound, and the texture of this purple place very pleasing. Indeed, I find it hard to leave this world of elegant essays. I return again and again to "On Style," "On Roland Barthes," "Notes on Camp," "Against Interpretation," "The Pornographic Imagination," "The Aesthetics of Silence," "Born Under the Sign of Saturn," and "Image World." Although there are areas of her oeuvre I have yet to explore, like her novels and four films (which were made in Europe, and are impossible to find in America), at present I'm happy to consume just her nonfiction and short stories. These dazzle me like some diaphanous companion who never wants me to leave her sensual planet, and who promises to provide me with everything I need — furniture, food, love, and a little happy home—if I stay and spurn all other spheres that sparkle in the realm of literature.