A bit of nostalgia for the olds folks: You can't go home again
Date de la conférence : 27 janv. 2018

Contexte : Engadin Art Talks

Présentation :

Première conférence de Pacôme en anglais. Réalisée le 27 janvier 2018 à 16h30 dans le cadre de l'Engadin Art Talks 2018 en Suisse. Le texte a été traduit en anglais par Chloé Perrin. Il est le premier d'une série de texte en anglais à venir.

We’re subjected to History. We’re defined by change, whether it be evolution, degradation, or mutation. And this is what usually opposes natural order to human history. Nature relies on the cycle of seasons. When humans are seen as part of nature, they belongs to a cycle too. Cyclical time is the time of the ancients. Whereas modern time, the time of monotheisms and rationalisms, is an arrow that can lead either to the end of the world, or to progress. In monotheist or modern time, nature can’t adjust to the human way of always going forward into the unknown and accumulating discoveries that shape the environment, even if it means menacing or even destroying it. In the Bible just as in modern philosophy, humans are “masters and owners of nature.” From then on, time isn’t the cyclical time of natural order anymore, but the time of technique or production. The whole tragedy of humanity revolves around its separation from nature and natural order, and from the fact that we “can't go home again”. Is any mention of nature doomed to sound nostalgic, then? Related to the past of humanity, to the Golden Age, to the childhood of the world, to a lost serenity?

There’s another way of seeing things. And this other way is related to the “broken” time of the Kingless Race, which argues that this world is a prison in which humans fell and have been trapped, and from which they must get away. With the depth of his prophetic vision, Mani gave nature itself the mission to get away from the dark bottom of demiurgic creation. Nature isn’t beautiful just because it’s “natural”, but because it’s trying to get away from a background that’s been cursed.

  Mani was born in the 3rd century AD in Ctesiphon, in present-day Irak. He was raised in a Jewish-Christian community under the patronage of Elchasi, but soon took his distance, wary of the dogmatic tendencies of the Elchasaites: according to him, they were leading to an externalized form of spirituality instead of focusing on the birth of the inner divinity. He was the recipient of two revelations, the first when he was twelve and the second when he was twenty-four, from al-Taum, his double or “heavenly twin”, who showed him the fight that human beings can’t avoid; the fight between Light and Dark. First and foremost, this fight is taking place within their own heart.

According to Mani, there is a germ of Light within every human, and their task is to do everything so this germ gets the upper hand on the powers of darkness. Such a germ exists within the heart of every community, every civilization, every spirituality as well. That’s why Mani never stopped traveling in order to collect the sparkles of Light that have been scattered in all the “mixed” cults of humans. When King Bahram I, worried about the influence he’d gained, threw him in the jail of Belapat, Mani told him, despite his martyr (his irons were being gradually tightened): “Every human being stays and dwells where they led themselves. Everyone goes according to their own actions. So they go and go back again—again and again—turning their deeds into their destiny.” This last sentence suggests that the idea of metempsychosis can be found in Manichean views, but that it’s seen as the complex balance between freedom and fate, fate being the dark consequences of free acts that one must get away from through a luminous deed.

Manicheans thought that Light and Dark were principles that were separated at first, and would be separated again in the end, but that the in-between was always a moment of “mix”: there is a blend of Light and Dark within every human, every doctrine, every tradition. This can explain their nonviolence as well as their ecumenism, but also their very strong sense of beauty as seen in nature. Abu Shakur al-Salimi « describes Chinese Manicheans worshiping the sun, water, trees, plants, animals, because “in everything beautiful dwells the divinity of light.” 

Considering the role of nature in Twin Peaks at two different moments, 25 years ago and today, it’s obvious that its “arcadian” (“consoling” would have said Van Gogh)  dimension disappeared. It isn’t necessarily that nature itself changed, but the possibility for humans of accessing serenity through it did. In the series from 1991-1992, not only the forest but the city of Twin Peaks itself were regarded as productions of nature, or more precisely, as the possibility for nature and humanity to coexist peacefully, the human community of the city being a community “of nature”, where order would be first, and disorder second; where Law would be, for the most part, respected (as show the characters of the sheriff and his deputies Hawk and Andy), although violated in details, especially by an evil coming from the outside, more precisely from the other side of the Canadian border, embodied by the Renault brothers, and by the inexplicable (at first) murder of Laura Palmer, appearing in Twin Peaks like “a thunderbolt from a clear sky” as Marx would say.

Dale Cooper coming to Twin Peaks is the arrival of a city dweller discovering the countryside. It’s a discovery of Paradise lost, which can be heard in his talk with judge Clinton Sterwood in episode 12, when the judge asks Cooper what he thinks of his small town: “Heaven, sir.” Sterwood then points out:“Well, this week, heaven includes arson, multiple homicides and an attempt on the life of a federal agent.” To which Cooper answers humorously: “Heaven is a large and interesting place, sir.” In another scene, Cooper asks Diane to check out the prices of real estate in Twin Peaks: obviously, the FBI agent wants to come and live in the countryside.

But this paradise was a lure. Twin Peaks wasn’t a heavenly place where humans were still living close to nature, in an environment full of harmony. Evil was there, everywhere, always, it’s just that people had the means—financial ones especially—to ignore it. And it didn’t come just from the outside: first, the Renault brothers and the influence of the Canadian mafia would have been nothing without the plots of the Horne family. And last, Laura’s killer was her own father, admittedly under the influence of the demon Bob, but the source of this demon was in the very heart of Twin Peaks. Fire Walk with Me shows the truth of what the series was presenting as a lie: the hell that this incestuous, perverted, destructive place is. From Fire Walk with Me on, the lure of Twin Peaks as paradise lost would not come back. The first image of Twin Peaks in season 3 is the trailer somewhere in the forest where Dr. Jacoby lives. Here, he receives shovels that he paints gold before selling them through his YouTube channel. We discover his double Dr. Amp in episodes 5, 10, and 12 (although the show of episode 12 is just an edited version of the one of episode 5).

“We're sinking down deep in the mud,” says Dr. Amp in episode 5, “and the fucks are at it again! The same vast global corporate conspiracy. Know the ingredients. Just read what's on the box. In fact, read between the lines. What's lurking in that toaster waffle, those muffins, that frozen children's treat? Poison! Deadly poisons, that's what's there. And what's waiting for you? Cancer, leukemia, autoimmune disorders, pulmonary embolism, warts, psoriasis, eczema, cardiac arrest, anorexia, body-image bullshit, microbial toxins, bacterial toxins, environmental toxins! Our air, our water, our earth, the very soil itself, our food, our bodies poisoned! You must see, hear, understand, and act. Act now. Friends, we all live in the mud. In the shit! Shovel your way out of the shit.”

He goes on in episode 10: “And the fucks are at it again! We're sheep to these monsters, and they don't give a shit! We grow our wool, and just when we're getting warm, they come along with their electric clippers and shear our wool off, and we're just naked, screaming little fucks! No wool for us! Freezing and hungry, in the night, and they don't give a shit. Then when we get sick, the pharmaceutical companies make billions. They own the fucking hospitals. Filled to the brim. They own the morgues, they own the embalming fluids, they own the mortuaries, the graveyards! Fucking us at the grocery store, at the bank, at the gas pump! They're feeding our children chemical shit coated in sugar. Why don't these monsters bite into those tasty treats themselves? 'Cause they'll die in the streets, just like us, and then they'll bloat like a big red fucking balloon. Stop! Stop distracting yourself with all this diverting bullshit, and pay attention. Save the children! Shovel your way out of the shit.”

Season 3 shows the city in a state of complete disrepair, suffering the consequences of the financial crisis, which is evoked not only by the investor hovering around Norma but also by Carl Rodd when he is talking about people having to sell their blood to survive. In the Las Vegas section of the series, Janey-E herself joins the choir when she tells the bookmakers: “We are not wealthy people. We drive cheap, terrible cars. We are the 99 percenters.”

Most of the characters live in extreme poverty: just like Dr. Jacoby, Miriam, the schoolteacher, lives in a trailer. So does Becky, the daughter of Bobby and Shelly. The police station keeps on getting phone calls about young people suffering the terrible consequences of a new drug. In a strange scene happening in front of the RR, Bobby sees a sick young girl, face pale and spit running from her lips.

The few moments of happiness in the series are sequences where characters are all of a sudden allowed to act freely. The most spectacular liberation is the reunion of Ed and Norma to Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” after a whole life of renouncing their love. But this moment is a direct consequence of Jacoby’s YouTube show. It’s a magical act of self-liberation, which is pretty much the only positive project we can have for the characters of season 3, even though it’s presented by a huffing and puffing Jacoby in irascible sermons. Ed’s liberation is the profane expression of what the series is saying on a metaphysical level. Cooper has to free himself from the Black Lodge first, then from amnesia. Audrey has to free herself from her flat first, then from her madness. Laura has to be freed from death first, then, as Carrie, she has to be freed from Odessa. But first and foremost, she has to free herself from amnesia so she can be able to fight Judy.

The color gold is important as well because it refers to alchemical transmutation, which an ex-Jungian psychoanalyst like Jacoby can’t ignore. There are three other occurrences of gold in season 3 (and these are the only occurrences of this metal or color in Twin Peaks as a whole and even in the work of David Lynch altogether): the color of the circle at the bottom of the sycamore that is leading to the house of the Fireman, the one of the Laura Palmer orb produced by Fireman, and the one from the Log Lady’s last words: “My log is turning gold.”

One of the distinctive features of season 3 is the complete change in musical direction. In the first two seasons, the city of Twin Peaks was draped in Angelo Badalamenti’s music like in a protective environment: themes both jazzy (bass decrescendo, drum brushes, vibraphones) and romantic (synthetic violins, glittering piano) gave the sequences a familiar tone. In season 3, the silence accompanying most of the scenes gives the whole thing a much drier atmosphere. The return of a theme is always some kind of a breach, a memory both unexpected and dramatic: in episode 4, Laura Palmer’s theme makes a blaring appearance when Bobby discovers her picture. He burst into tears, and says: “Brings back some memories.” The theme of the last episode (“Dark Mood Woods”) can be heard when Hawk looks at the circle of the twelve sycamores, the theme of the series when Cooper wakes up from his coma and comes back to his youthful character, and lastly, “Audrey’s Dance” when, in a dream-like scene, Audrey, who just stepped in the Roadhouse looking for Billy (whom she’ll never find) is invited to dance by herself. The return of all these themes says only one thing: the past will never come back. Just like Gordon Cole discovering the doppelgänger instead of his agent Cooper, we should be warned that “Something is very wrong” and that we weren’t greeted properly. The subject of season 3 is the impossibility of going back to Twin Peaks unless we are willing to be met by the evil twin of the town instead of our beloved Twin Peaks. On a wider scale, it’s about the impossibility of moving back into the world. The impossibility to find back nature, the world, human community, life itself. Except for the fact that this paradise lost was actually an artificial paradise. In fact, since Fire Walk with Me, David Lynch destroyed the town of Twin Peaks as a pseudo-heaven by putting the viewer through the last days of Laura Palmer. Season 3 is replaying this idea and giving it a wider scope. Twin Peaks is a paradise lost twice, but also the story of Laura Palmer alive twice.

The pseudo-heaven of Twin Peaks that the viewers loved so much in the first two seasons will never come back: whether it be because of the accumulation of convoluted, hard to connect side-stories, the town itself where we never spend enough time per episode to really settle, the music that never appears long enough to get back its osmotic quality, and of course the constant play on the viewer’s patience, who has to wait 16 episodes before seeing good old Cooper, and 17 to see good old Cooper in good old Twin Peaks—just before he leaves it again. We’ll find this pseudo-heaven in the most unlikely place, though: the artificial world of Las Vegas. But it’s only there as a lure. The lightness and playfulness of these sequences shouldn’t fool us on the nature of what is actually shown: this world only considers itself happy because of the quantity of money that can be made there. In that sense, this world is Judy’s, at least as much as the world from the last episode.

During Cooper’s adventures in Las Vegas, the only reason he makes people happy is that he gives them money. The Mitchum brothers—that Cooper regards as “hearts of gold”—are mobsters, criminals living from the money they make in their casino, which means from the poverty they inflict to other people. Their casino isn’t called the “Silver Mustang” for nothing: the horse is a symbol of Judy. During their first appearance, they smash one of their employee’s face because he made them lose some money, and they’re always with three silent, lethargic escorts that seem to live in a state of happiness as fake as the brothers’ kindness: they look like three junkies. Even the old lady to which Cooper brings happiness by helping her pick the right slot machine is reunited with her son… who left her in the first place because she was poor! Finally, the happy end Cooper provides Janey-E and Sonny-Jim takes the shape of a tulpa, a being without any natural will, almost an automaton. On top of that, strange detail: red balloons similar to the ones of Sonny-Jim’s birthday party can be found everywhere; on the square in front of the Lucky 7 building, and in the house where a child lives with his drugged-out mother. The artificial happiness shown in these Vegas sequences evokes the artificial happiness of the first Twin Peaks, and these red balloons are obviously the ones Dr. Amp is talking about in his YouTube videos. Las Vegas is the artificial paradise that the viewer is dreaming about when he gets distracted with all this diverting bullshit instead of “saving the children”, and it shouldn’t be regarded as anything else. Seen as it really is, this happiness looks horrifying. Let’s free ourselves of the shit we have in our eyes: that’s what the season 3 of Twin Peaks is actually saying.

The goal of this season isn’t to go back to some kind of paradise lost, but to show the world of Twin Peaks as the place of a fight between Light and Dark. It is the boxing match that Sarah Palmer is watching on a loop in episode 13, with the boxers replaying the same fight over and over again, the one with the black shorts always throwing the one with the white shorts to the floor. “Round, round, round. The right hand catches the big guy by the ear! And he finally goes down, hangs onto the ropes. The gentleman asks him if he's okay. Looks like round number one and two underway. Now it's a boxing match again. Round, round, round...” The one who just fell and who is hanging onto the ropes is agent Cooper, symbolized by the white shorts. But the judge (the Fireman, Gordon Cole, David Lynch) asks if he’s OK, and the match goes on. This sequence unveils the true story told by Twin Peaks, not the artificial paradise that the public wanted and that it found back, in a truly perverted way, in the Las Vegas storyline.

This scene can also be associated, on a rhythmical perspective, to the poem pronounced by the Woodman in episode 8, that is also repeated in a loop: “This is the water, and this is the well. Drink full and descend. The horse is the white of the eyes and dark within.” A well and a horse are also mentioned in Inland Empire: “The horse was taken to the well” meant that the Ghost managed to come back in the plot, that he recreated the infernal loop in which the same sick-amour storyline could be replayed. Here, the water and the well symbolize the memory lapse through which the horse—the power of the Dark—can get in: the white of the blind-looking eyes of the Black Lodge characters in episode 29, the inner darkness of Sarah Palmer we keep on going back to in season 3.

In Mulholland Drive, Dan tells his friend Herb about a recurring dream he had where he would see, behind everyday reality (the Winkie’s), a hobo. And the hobo “is the one who's doing it.” This hobo marks the apparition in Lynch’s movies of poverty as America’s best-kept secret. His face covered in black, he seems to be the first of the Woodsmen as we see them in season 3 (in Fire Walk with Me, their face wasn’t black nor their clothes covered in oil). Just like Jean Renoir in La Chienne, with Mulholland Drive and Inland Empire, Lynch starts to depict misery as a consequence of the curse of sick-amour. Diane turning into Betty and Nikki turning into Sue are images of a drop in status. In season 3, Frost and Lynch are depicting the massive proletarianization of the middle-class consequent to the subprime mortgage crisis.

The world of Judy, Odessa, is dominated by poverty. Carrie’s house has an ugly garden, just like the neglected garden of the Consul in Under the Volcano : “We destroyed the structure and the beauty but could not destroy the memory of that beauty” (Malcolm Lowry). In the entrance, we can see a chair with a trash can and toilet paper rolls on top. That’s why all we can answer to “What year is this?” is “Now.” There hasn’t been a historical time since the post-World War II economic expansion when the population was as poor as now: misery became the collective fate of humanity. As we go on breaking our hearts on sick-amours that will never save us, as we distract ourselves with the sordid tales of happiness of mobsters and billionaires, as we try to make sense of storylines that have nothing to do with each other, misery grows, and Judy’s world is becoming one with ours. What should we do then?

Stop distracting ourselves with all this diverting bullshit. Save the children.

There are a lot of musical quotations in the third season of Twin Peaks, and some of them are quite unexpected. It starts with Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” in episode 1. One of the most moving is the lines from the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” in Freddie’s monologue (“Woke up, fell out of bed, drag a comb across my hair”). But the most significant one is probably Dr. Jacoby’s “Save the children” at the end of his YouTube show, quoting Marvin Gaye’s “Save the Children” from What’s Goin’ On, one of the most important American soul albums.


I just want to ask a question
Who really cares?
To save a world in despair
There'll come a time, when the world won't be singin'
Flowers won't grow, bells won't be ringin'
Who really cares?
Who's willing to try to save a world
That's destined to die
When I look at the world it fills me with sorrow
Little children today are really gonna suffer tomorrow
Oh what a shame, such a bad way to live
All who is to blame, we can't stop livin'
Live, live for life
But let live everybody
Live life for the children
Let's save the children


Save the Children could have been the subhead of the season 3 of Twin Peaks. First, because there are many children. And then, because they definitely need some help. The children of the series’ protagonists, to begin with: Wally, the son of Andy and Lucy, who rides his motorcycle across the USA in some kind of naive Beat poet impersonation. Becky, the daughter of Shelly and Bobby, and her husband Steven, two millennials who are completely lost; Steven cheats on Becky with Gersten, Donna Hayward’s younger sister who appeared as a gifted child in episode 8 of the first season of the series, and who comes back in season 3 as a drugged-out, exhausted, and disoriented young woman. When Steven threatens to commit suicide in Gersten’s arms, he reaches some kind of surrealistic poetry describing the metamorphoses that he will go through after his death: “Where will I be? Will I be with the rhinoceros? The lightning in the bottle? Or will I be completely turquoise?” And Richard, the spawn of Audrey Horne’s rape by the doppelgänger, runs over a child and kills him without showing any sign of remorse, and ends up struck by lightning as he is “testing” the coordinates for his own father (the doppelgänger adding infanticide to the already long list of dirty tricks he did in order to get these damned coordinates). We also hear about the suicide of the son of Franck Truman, the town’s new sheriff. And, because although he’s not a child anymore, he still is the son of one of the series’ main characters, there is Bobby Briggs. Even if he disappeared 25 years ago, Major Briggs looks like the best father of the whole series, still keeping an eye on his son, and absolutely confident in Bobby’s future. Although Becky’s life isn’t quite successful, the way Bobby talks to her and the help he offers shows that he’s taking his father role very seriously. If James “is still cool” according to Shelly, Bobby joined the team of the sheriff of Twin Peaks, working with Hawk, Andy, and Lucy. He’s one of the “good ones” to quote the Log Lady. Then, there are all these characters we run into at the Roadhouse, who look like they’re not coming from anywhere, and are not going anywhere either: Chloe, Ella, Natalie, Abbye, Megan, Sophie, and the most moving of all, Ruby, that two assholes put on the floor and who crawl to the music before starting to scream. The only millennial who seems out of place in this universe is Freddie, the young, green-gloved Englishman, to the point that he looks like he’s coming from another series or another universe. From Lost especially, where the actors have a very strong British accent and quote the Beatles, where people talk about fate and go to a sacred place without questioning the one who sent them there, just out of trust in destiny.

And then, there are the teenagers, that we hardly see at all, except for the young girl from New Mexico, 1956, who swallows the flying frog during “My Prayer”. The only ones we hear about in nowadays world are the prostitutes of Jean-Michel Renault, the Roadhouse’s new boss: they aren’t 17 like Laura and Ronnette anymore, now they’re 15! “They are whores, pure and simple,” says Renault with a chilling chuckle.

At last, there are the children. They don’t appear that often in David Lynch’s movies, except for his second short film, The Grandmother, which is about a supernatural relationship between a child and his grandmother, two characters that could be found as spirits in the first Twin Peaks. Admittedly, there are also the short apparitions of Dorothy’s son at the end of Blue Velvet, and of Sailor and Lula’s at the end of Wild at Heart, but none in Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive, and a nameless one again that pops out from nowhere at the end of Inland Empire to symbolize the family “offered” or “given back” to the Lost Girl by Nikki Grace. The scenes with children would clock around one minute per hour in Lynch’s work before season 3.

In the new Twin Peaks, they’re many. Most of the time, they’re nameless. There’s the son of the young junkie of Rancho Rosa, who seems bored, looks out of the window all day long, and is almost killed when he plays near Dougie’s car. There’s the one who gets ran over by Richard Horne, whose soul ascending to the sky is seen by the very old Carl while all the witnesses stare at the scene, afflicted, devastated—among them the young Miriam, schoolteacher in Twin Peaks, who just told Heidi and Shelly that the kids this year are so cute… There is the little girl who noticed the “funny smell” of the killing dwarf in Las Vegas. There is the group of kids who were playing with a ball when they noticed a bloody Miriam crawling towards the road. There is the child who shot on the RR because he was playing with the gun of his parents at the back of the car, and the sick girl that Bobby sees drooling and moving like a zombie in the middle of the traffic jam. There is the son of the warden Dwight Murphy who sees his father get killed by Hutch and Chantal, the doppelgänger’s employees. Most of all, there is Sonny Jim, the only child who has a name: the son of Dougie and Janey-E. He looks incredibly sad and impenetrable. In episode 5, when Janey-E is getting ready to drive Cooper/Dougie to work, Cooper looks at Sonny-Jim, and seeing his perpetually mysterious and melancholy face, he starts to cry. It’s very sad for the viewer as well: it’s obvious in all these sequences that nothing good will ever happen to these children, that the world they live in will never get better, that things aren’t going in that direction. And it’s not a stupid gym set that will make things better.

If the season 3 of Twin Peaks works on two levels, and the first level is about destroying Bob and punishing the doppelgänger, the second level, Judy, can be traced back in the whole story as soon as we realize that it’s there. Except for the doppelgänger’s quest for the coordinates and the Ruth Davenport murder storyline, all the season is about the way Judy already started to damage this world and the state of deterioration our time reflects. Judy started damaging this world a long time ago, way before she came out of the glass box in New York. Judy is our blindness about the material conditions that we regard as our happiness.

Judy is the young girl falling asleep at home to the Woodsmen’s poem, but it’s also the America of the 50s’ which can treat itself to nostalgic dreams about love thanks to all the havoc it caused, from the extermination of the Native Americans to the first nuclear tests in New Mexico—and of course, to the use of the bomb on Hiroshima—: yes, “something is missing”, as says the Log Lady: it’s the outstanding debt of America, and Hawk will be able to find it through his heritage, just like Naido will find Judy through hers (hence the importance of Penderecki’s Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima).

Judy is good old Twin Peaks where girls are always sexy, where Audrey dances in her red shoes, where Cooper eats cherry pies, but also where high schoolers prostitute themselves for drugs,  and where parents rape their children. Judy is our own world as long as it will feed on the sacrifice of young girls, as long as it will need Laura Palmer dead, our hopes broken, and our loves deceived to live on. In Blue Velvet, Jeffrey and Sandy were smiling thinking about the fact that robins eat bugs. In Twin Peaks, Cooper and Diane aren’t smiling anymore. The bugs are eating robins now.

Judy is Twin Peaks once Bob has been beaten, once the temporary embodiment of evil stopped playing its part, which is to blind us about the price of happiness and about the extent of our misery. It’s because Laura Palmer knew that Twin Peaks, just like this world, is Hell, that she’s the only one who can fight Judy. It’s because Laura Palmer would be the last one to miss good old Twin Peaks that she can reach it. “Everybody knew she was in trouble. But we didn't do anything. You wanna know who killed Laura? You did! We all did,” says Bobby in episode 3 of the first season. When Judy reaches the spiritual world, even the best of men forget that they are part of the misery of this very spiritual world. It’s Las Vegas becoming the spiritual center of the world, some kind of money and drugs Tibet.

In that respect, Cooper succeeded. He didn’t manage to “save Laura” and bring her back to the Fireman’s house—but was it really what he was trying to do? Or was he trying to find Judy through her, and to allow Laura to fight her? When Philip Jeffries sends him back to the 23rd of February 1989, he doesn’t tell him: “This is where you’ll save Laura”, but “This is where you'll find Judy.” At the end of his trip through time, Laura is kidnapped and sent at “Judy’s”. But once he gets out of the circle of the twelve sycamores in episode 18, the path of Cooper is quite linear: “430”, “Richard and Linda”, “Judy’s”, “I want to take you to your mother's home”, “It’s very important”… Until the last moment: when unable to find Sarah Palmer back, Cooper thinks he failed. At that moment, he caves in under the weight of the darkness gathered inside of him and even starts to wonder what year it is...

… This moment is when Laura is experiencing anamnesis. It’s when she hears the voice of Sarah and screams. If this ending seemed so dark to the viewers, it’s because blinded by Judy and the artificial paradise of the first Twin Peaks, they may not have understood that this moment is precisely the only substantial victory won by Cooper in the whole season. It’s the moment when Laura shovels her way—and Cooper’s—“out of the shit”. The fight between Light and Dark never ceased: it isn’t a mishap of the world, but its very substance. Twin Peaks is the description of this fight.