The Real Passion Of The Twentieth Century

Without Work, All Life Goes Rotten. But When Work Is Soulless, Life Stifles And Dies.

No Doubt Our Love Was Still There, But Quite Simply It Was Unusable, Heavy To Carry, Inert Inside Of Us, Sterile As Crime Or Condemnation. It Was No Longer Anything Except A Patience With No Future And A Stubborn Wait.

The Myth Of Unlimited Production Brings War In Its Train As Inevitably As Clouds Announce A Storm.

At The Heart Of All Beauty Lies Something Inhuman.

Everyone Would Like To Behave Like A Pagan, With Everyone Else Behaving Like A Christian.