It Sometimes Happens That Pleasure Blows Anywhere

The Authors Of Book Reviews Would Consider Themselves Dishonored Were They To Mention, As They Should, The Subject Of The Book.

There Are Other Relations Besides Reality, Which The Mind Is Capable Of Grasping And Which Also Are Primary, Like Chance, Illusion, The Fantastic, The Dream.

The Whole Fauna Of Human Fantasies, Their Marine Vegetation, Drifts And Luxuriates In The Dimly Lit Zones Of Human Activity, As Though Plaiting Thick Tresses Of Darkness. Here, Too, Appear The Lighthouses Of The Mind, With Their Outward Resemblance To Less Pure Symbols. The Gateway To Mystery Swings Open At The Touch Of Human Weakness And We Have Entered The Realms Of Darkness. One False Step, One Slurred Syllable Together Reveal A Man's Thoughts.

It Is Time To Return To Close Reading, To A Serious And Painstaking Examination Of An Author's Methods, Of His Style. Do Not Be Deterred By Headaches. First Of All, This Would Be Proof Of Your Lack Of Stamina. And Then, Migraines, Piercing Pain And Sudden Stabs At The Temples Are More Likely The Effects Of Syphilis Than Of Hard Work.

No More Painters, No More Scribblers, No More Musicians, No More Sculptors, No More Religions, No More Royalists, No More Radicals, No More Imperialists, No More Anarchists, No More Socialists, No More Communists, No More Proletariat, No More Democrats, No More Republicans, No More Bourgeois, No More Aristocrats, No More Arms, No More Police, No More Nations, An End At Last To All This Stupidity, Nothing Left, Nothing At All, Nothing, Nothing.