The island is not discovered, but built; a small parcel of land reclaimed from the barren ocean, a tenuous strip of fertile ground pulled from the unfriendly waters. Its beauty cannot last. The sea will have its own; the waters must rush in again and drown the land. They know this, they who build their castles out of sand.
Society apart. A utopia flawed, not in vision, but in scope — utopia is always at war with society until all society is utopia. Shakers dancing in separate lines, lesbians in Appalachia, pirates in the Atlantic. The island, no less than those who build it, is always radical, always radical, always questioning itself. It exists as an affront, a reproach to the myth of law, both common and natural.
A journalist asks why dada rages in the streets: why is art a curse in your mouth? dada rages because dada is. dada is furious that the world allows dada to be. dada is a sickness and a corruption and you are idiots and madmen who let dada live.
So. An impossible place, an impossible challenge; Jane takes up her forceps and her autoclave and dares to think abortion.