Lynch embodies the magical spell of art in such a free and aggressively personal form, it's amazing. And for him, that tends to come at the expense of ordinary

Lynch embodies the magical spell of art in such a free and aggressively personal form, it's amazing. And for him, that tends to come at the expense of ordinary narrative intelligibility. But it's not only intelligibility between his art and the recipients of his art; it is also between his art and himself. It's not compatible with a cold, purely analytical approach, but rather with one that is necessarily driven by sensitivity and intuition. Trying really hard to really "decode" it is in fact undoing it, as you won't be able to appreciate what it truly is, artistically; instead, and not without lots of work and head-scratching that will get zero confirmation from him, you'll be scrutinizing the bare minimum of linearity and conventionality that you were able to dig up and rearrange, all of which takes a rather functional role in the whole thing, and even then, it'll be so far removed from the experience of the film and its aesthetic essence, that you might as well watch something else. It's like laying eyes on the most beautiful, weird, intricately built, inspiring sculpture, and focusing on taking it apart so you can see what's inside, only to destroy its true form and value.