Writing from the viceroy of Sardinia who else, at the starting of their essay about “The Theater and the Plague, ” “had a particularly afflicting dream, ” Artaud asks: “But can it be too late to avert the scourge? Even wrecked, perhaps cancer , even pulverized plus used to their pretty marrow, he understands that we do not die in our dreams, that our can operates even in nonsensicality, even in the negation regarding possibility, even inside the elementumwandlung of lies from which reality can easily be remade” (15). If your viceroy “wakes up” for this knowledge, as if among the dog and plague presently there was “a palpable communication” (17)—confirming Artaud in “the notion of symbols plus archetypes which in turn act such as private blows, rests, jumps of the heart, subpoena of the lymph, inflammatory photographs thrust into our own suddenly wakened heads, ” identifying the powers “we are as symbols” (27)—the trouble with symbolist theatre (as with expressionism later) is that the thrilling promise regarding a transfigured reality, to which we break through often the dreaming, leaves you with the perpetual irony involving something to be needed, definitely not in contrast to the phantasm connected with digital reality around a cyberspatial world. All of us seem to be stated something additional, outside, above, outdoing to all overall look the system of manifestation, but once there's an alluring schwindel in the hal