Abstract

As I move through the garden, something, a strange species of writing, hovers before me like the perfume of a wild rose. I read the words: Metaphor is a plant. That is to say, plants are metaphors for metaphor. This message, then, this vegetal missive, appears to be constituted by a kind of phyto- or antho-morphism, reading by way of a metaphorical vegetal life. But as I continue to write, as I ‘extend’ myself, as Derrida does, ‘by force of play’, I find that this, in the end, will have been an extended metaphor.