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Garbaczewski’s Hamlet is a machine. A theatre machine. A mythological machine. Matrices that trigger and drive contemporary cultural tendencies, the fluid nature of both individual and collective identity, current political events, social anxieties or the number of accessible artistic conventions. Chance, intuition and symptoms of interpretation that can never be rationally motivated. (…) With Garbaczewski the poison is not poured into the ear. The poison turns out to be words. The poison is poured from the mouth to the ear. The words have been devaluated, they can be manipulated, their meaning can be changed, their colour, temperature, addressee and the person pronouncing them. The capacity of the sign is unlimited. Instead of a choice between “yes” or “no”, there is only perhaps. The fluid postmodern is an explosive mixture, washing away at our continent and flooding the borders. Words no longer have anything to say. Words do not talk. Words, words, words. Words liquidate performance. “My brain is a single scar. I want to be a machine. Hands for grabbing feet for walking, no pain, no thought!”
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