There is no direct means of perceiving the real. Science can’t help. The whole of knowledge is like a deep layer of insulation between the individual & the real. No purposeful definition seems possible, only a forced engagement appalling & ecstatic by turns, a tense Lovecraftian psychodrama in which things are simply not what they seem & not very far down beneath it all everything is more chaotic, more undermining of the human construction of the world, than it’s possible to imagine. This kind of fiction is always an attempt to ambush the real, surprise it in the act of being what it actually is, while the real returns the favour & manifests as an intrusion. A thing on a stick. A network of veins seen in a wrong light. A condition of the vacuum. But the more clearly horrific the episode, the more it interposes itself between us & the very thing we’re trying not to hide.