God Is Dead. Marx Is Dead. And

The Arts Are Man's Most Useless ... And Essential ... Activity.

For Me, It Is As Though At Every Moment The Actual World Had Completely Lost Its Actuality. As Though There Was Nothing There; Asthough There Were No Foundations For Anything Or As Though It Escaped Us. Only One Thing, However, Is Vividly Present: The Constant Tearing Of The Veil Of Appearances; The Constant Destruction Of Everything In Construction. Nothing Holds Together, Everything Falls Apart.

Every Work Of Art (unless It Is A Psuedo-intellectualist Work, A Work Already Comprised In Some Ideology That It Merely Illustrates, As With Brecht) Is Outside Ideology, Is Not Reducible To Ideology. Ideology Circumscribes Without Penetrating It. The Absence Of Ideology In A Work Does Not Mean An Absence Of Ideas; On The Contrary It Fertilizes Them.

When Silence Confronts Us, The Question To Which There Is No Answer Rings Out In The Silence. That Ultimate "why," That Great "why" Is Like A Light That Blots Out Everything, But A Blinding Light; Nothing More Can Be Made Out.

I Have Always Considered Imaginative Truth To Be More Profound, More Loaded With Significance, Than Every Day Reality... Everything We Dream About, And By That I Mean Everything We Desire, Is True (the Myth Of Icarus Came Before Aviation, And If Ader Or Bleriot Started Flying It Is Because All Men Have Dreamed Of Flight). There Is Nothing Truer Than Myth... Reality Does Not Have To Be: It Is Simply What Is.