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 Like Lacan, Bruno draws and quarters the psyche such that, from any one locus, the four seemingly fold into three, two, or one—e.g., his 1592 schema pairs pairwise in “a certain species of living mirror, wherein the image of nature and the shadow of divinity.” But on which sides of the speculum­ mundi do we find divinity’s (symbolic) shadow and nature’s (imaginary) image? Joining the timeworn metonymic ‘man­-microcosm’ to his spec(tac)ular metaphor, Bruno’s “tertiary signification of the world” suggests the superposition of a secondary vestige over a primary archetype: in scopic terms, “those things which are in the mirror” conform “those things which approach” it via adumbration by the moon (nature) of the sun (divinity). As such, is the co­-planar image but a reflection of its own shadow? In the 1583­ Frenzies, this selfsame anamorphosis (dis)appears in the form of yet another emblematic statue: “it is impossible to see the sun, the universal Apollo and absolute light in its highest form” which, unlike redoubled hunters and prey, eludes in situ phantasy. Thus, “to see its shadow, his Diana, the world, nature,” he must project to the vanishing­-point from her illuminated contour.

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 Now twin siblings embody “the light shining through the opacity of matter, resplendent in the darkness, gazed upon as is the sun via the moon.” So to follow the gaze, from paradox to parallax, “rare are the Actaeons destined to look upon Diana naked ... to so enamor the body of nature that the hunter is transformed into the object of the hunt.” But if his “dogs, that is, thoughts of divine things, devour this Actaeon, killing in him the common man,” into which prey is he transformed—mortal, divine, both? Before “he begins to live the life of the intellect,” that is—to deploy Nietzsche’s Kunsttrieben formulae—by the Apollonian drive, “he stops living according to the world of folly, of sensuality,” i.e., by the Dionysian drive. “How does Actaeon fall in with Dionysus?” Klossowski asks; in reply, this “god of vine and delirium,” Apollo’s unruly brother “who dies and resurrects, is of the very same family”—indeed, they are cousins. So, to restage the family tragedy, we need but exchange brutes: Actaeon, qua civil dog, becomes Dionysus, qua wild stag—and, thanks to hieratic black humours, our heretical enthusiast goes up in smoke. “‘Ecce elongavi fugiens, et mansi in solitudine.’”

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