Finally the journey leads to the city of Tamara. You penetrate it along streets thick with signboards jutting from the walls. The eye does not see things but images of things that mean other things: pincers point out the tooth-drawer's house; a tankard, the tavern...

Your gaze scans the streets as if they were written pages: the city says everything you must think, makes you repeat her discourse, and while you believe you are visiting Tamara you are only recording the names with which she defines herself and all her parts.

However the city may really be, beneath this thick coating of signs, whatever it may contain or conceal, you leave Tamara without having
discovered it. Outside, the land stretches, empty, to the horizon; the sky
opens, with speeding clouds. In the shape that chance and wind give the
clouds, you are already intent on recognizing figures: a saling ship, a hand,
an elephant....