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The Medusa is a monster whose direct gaze turns the living into stone. She represents the moment magic turns against itself: when a living metaphor hardens into a nonliving object. To defeat her, one must use a mirror—a metaphor for the mind. Not the protection of a dead mind, but of an unpossessed one: like a still pond it remains in the present, reflecting without clinging. A mind like water, which does not mind what it reflects.
The Minotaur is the monster of a maze. He represents a hunger contained by language. I find this hunger resembles the desire for language in itself: a scholar’s appetite for her system of knowledge for its own sake. Perhaps the Minotaur is the unraveling of a thought-thread into insanity, and tracing this thread back leads out—out of confusion, out of ignorance. Hence the importance of writing: the clew that leads both ways, into the maze and out. The thread is thought made object.
In both cases the monsters are self-defeating; each has a blind spot. The Minotaur never escapes the laws that contain him, his walls of words. And the Medusa can never truly see herself.
The marriage of these monsters—where word joins mind, and thought joins its reflection—is called “mathematics.” Here sign and object are bound so tightly they become operationally inseparable. In Cartesian form, and in analysis, number is wedded with space; our maze is derived from a postulate, a line drawn in advance. The Minotaur is too busy thinking to see his bride, and the Medusa never enters an imaginary labyrinth when she is concerned with the immanence of her gaze.
And does mathematics inherit the weaknesses of her parents? Follow language too close and you find the words staring back at you. See the world as an illusion that must be penetrated, and you will find yourself in a maze of language.