It’s all lies. All of it. And not just in the laughable inadequacy
of school maps with the wheels of cheese, ears of grain, and heaps of
coal, not merely in the quaintness of old maps of now unconscious
empires and failed experiments. The lies are more fundamental than
the inherent falsehood of place names, pasted over and chosen over
other names, equally false. No. The lies are the lines themselves,
in the idea that the lines matter, that something stops here, on this
side, something else on the other side, that something of some
significance travels along a particular line. How do you draw a map
of a system of universal and nebulous fungibility? You don’t.
There is nothing noble in the attempt to sustain what is no longer
sustainable. That is itself a concealment, a lie. The mapmaker’s art
is dead, and it is our geography that has killed it.
He caps his pen, folds the paper in half and puts it between unused
pages of his notebook. Back to Sector R.