Thus Every Writer's Motto Reads: Mad I

New York... Is A City Of Geometric Heights, A Petrified Desert Of Grids And Lattices, An Inferno Of Greenish Abstraction Under A Flat Sky, A Real Metropolis From Which Man Is Absent By His Very Accumulation.

For The Photograph's Immobility Is Somehow The Result Of A Perverse Confusion Between Two Concepts: The Real And The Live: By Attesting That The Object Has Been Real, The Photograph Surreptitiously Induces Belief That It Is Alive, Because Of That Delusion Which Makes Us Attribute To Reality An Absolute Superior, Somehow Eternal Value; But By Shifting This Reality To The Past ("this-has-been"), The Photograph Suggests That It Is Already Dead.

If I Had To Create A God, I Would Lend Him A “slow Understanding”: A Kind Of Drip-by-drip Understanding Of Problems. People Who Understand Quickly Frighten Me.

Language Is Legislation, Speech Is Its Code. We Do Not See The Power Which Is In Speech Because We Forget That All Speech Is A Classification, And That All Classifications Are Oppressive.

All Of A Sudden It Didn't Bother Me Not Being Modern.