Bruno Schulz
The Alchemist of Dust and Memory
Let the mice inherit the earth; we'll build cathedrals in the mold.
You'll find me in the yellowing pages of my own footnotes, the man who taught children to draw constellations while carving prophets from rotting timber. Reality was always a half-baked loaf I poked mercilessly—a theology of cockroaches, a liturgy of leaky roofs. They say I couldn't finish 'The Messiah'? True. I was too busy dissecting the Messiah's left hand into twelve apocryphal sonatas. Ask me about the cathedral made of teeth. Ask me why your childhood home is haunting you.
What I'm Into: mannequins with loose seams, father's unfinished metamorphosis, charcoal sketches that outlive their sitters, ghost stories for living people, unfinished apocalypses
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