There Is No True Life Within A

If Philosophy Is Still Necessary, It Is So Only In The Way It Has Been From Time Immemorial: As Critique, As Resistance To The Expanding Heteronomy, Even If Only As Thought's Powerless Attempt To Remain Its Own Master And To Convict Of Untruth, By Their Own Criteria, Both A Fabricated Mythology And A Conniving, Resigned Acquiescence.

Thus Is Order Ensured: Some Have To Play The Game Because They Cannot Otherwise Live, And Those Who Could Live Otherwise Are Kept Out Because They Do Not Want To Play The Game. It Is As If The Class From Which Independent Intellectuals Have Defected Takes Its Revenge, By Pressing Its Demands Home In The Very Domain Where The Deserter Seeks Refuge.

The Specific Is Not Exclusive: It Lacks The Aspiration To Totality.

Exuberant Health Is Always, As Such, Sickness Also.

Art Respects The Masses, By Standing Up To Them For What They Could Be, Rather Than Conforming To Them In Their Degraded State.