If resistance to realism provokes a silent unreadable body (Chapter 1), it is fitting that a chapter on Brecht should begin with a short text on pointing.

In the 1930s, Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas on their American lecture tour, were driving in the country in Western Massachusetts. Toklas pointed out a batch of clouds. Stein replied, ‘Fresh eggs.’ Toklas insisted that Stein look at the clouds. Stein replied again, ‘Fresh eggs.’ Then Toklas asked, ‘Are you making symbolical language?’ ‘No,’ Stein answered, ‘I’m reading the signs. I love to read the signs.’2