Forget The Damned Motor Car And Build

When Art Seems To Be Empty Of Meaning, As No Doubt Some Of The Abstract Painting Of Our Own Day Actually Does Seem, What The Painting Says, Indeed What The Artist Is Shrieking At The Top Of His Voice, Is That Life Has Become Empty Of All Rational Content And Coherence, And That, In Times Like These, Is Far From A Meaningless Statement.

A Picture Was Once A Rare Sort Of Symbol, Rare Enough To Call For Attentive Concentration. Now It Is The Actual Experience That Is Rare, And The Picture Has Become Ubiquitous.

The Very People Who Shudder Over The Cruelty Of The Hunter Are Apt To Forget That Slaughter, In The Grimmest Sense Of The Word, Is A Process They Entrust Daily To The Butcher; And That Unlike The Game Of The Forests, Even The Dumbest Creatures Of The Slaughterhouse Know What Is In Store For Them.

The Artist Does Not Illustrate Science; ... [but] He Frequently Responds To The Same Interests That A Scientist Does, And Expresses By A Visual Synthesis What The Scientist Converts Into Analytical Formulae Or Experimental Demonstrations.

Sport In The Sense Of A Mass-spectacle, With Death To Add To The Underlying Excitement, Comes Into Existence When A Population Has Been Drilled And Regimented And Depressed To Such An Extent That It Needs At Least A Vicarious Participation In Difficult Feats Of Strength Or Skill Or Heroism In Order To Sustain Its Waning Life-sense.