But He Who Dies In Despair Has

The Body's Habituation To Walking As Normal Stems From The Good Olddays. It Was The Bourgeois Form Of Locomotion: Physicaldemythologization, Free Of The Spell Of Hieratic Pacing, Rooflesswandering, Breathless Flight. Human Dignity Insisted On The Right Towalk, A Rhythm Not Extorted From The Body By Command Or Terror. Thewalk, The Stroll, Were Private Ways Of Passing Time, The Heritage Ofthe Feudal Promenade In The Nineteenth Century.

Philosophy ... Must Not Bargain Away Anything Of The Emphatic Concept Of Truth.

The Culture Industry Perpetually Cheats Its Consumers Of What It Perpetually Promises. The Promissory Note Which, With Its Plots And Staging, It Draws On Pleasure Is Endlessly Prolonged; The Promise, Which Is Actually All The Spectacle Consists Of, Is Illusory: All It Actually Confirms Is That The Real Point Will Never Be Reached, That The Diner Must Be Satisfied With The Menu.

If Across The Atlantic The Ideology Was Pride, Here It Is Delivering The Goods.

The Sublime Is Only A Step Removed From The Ridiculous.