Abstract
ABSTRACTHere the intrepid reader will find a list, assembled by chance and improvisation. These severed digits are obscure, unreadable; but, in the context of Benjamin's fascination with the partial and the forgotten, they vibrate together, a field of spontaneous association. Instead of an order, there are the sensuous correspondences of shared concepts, forms, ideas, plus also the happy accidents of coincidence, a mastery of not-knowing: chords which seem to strike themselves. Here, then, this writing tries to transcribe the echoes of that uneven harmony. There is a hovering spectre, but it is invisible, it cannot be named. Or perhaps the unmeasurability of dream-time begets its infinite forgetfulness.
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