”I may be sitting in a cafe listening to the music, drinking coffee. The lights are vivid, the music violent. I am keenly aware of everything, from the stain on the table to the face of the man sitting farthest from the table, aware of what the waiters are discussing. I feel my body alive and warm inside of my fur coat. I am wearing a hood with a fur edge. I feel at moments I am an actress.
I feel I am a Polish countess, a Hungarian singer, an Eskimo princess, all out of novels. The men always believe in my disguises. They believe. They never step behind the stage to say: “You’re lying. You were lying when you sewed the hood. You’re not what you seem to be.”
If I answer: “What am I?,” this only precipitates my departure.
As soon as someone denies my existence, appearance, and I am exposed as a disguised being, as a spy from another world, this other world opens its luminous jaws and engulfs me. I am here only while someone believes in me, while some human being swears to my presence and loves me.”