It Is In Love With Its Limitless

It Is A World Completely Rotten With Wealth, Power, Senility, Indifference, Puritanism And Mental Hygiene, Poverty And Waste, Technological Futility And Aimless Violence, And Yet I Cannot Help But Feel It Has About It Something Of The Dawning Of The Universe. Perhaps Because The Entire World Continues To Dream Of New York, Even As New York Dominates And Exploits It.

Depression Moods Lead, Almost Invariably, To Accidents. But, When They Occur, Our Mood Changes Again, Since The Accident Shows We Can Draw The World In Our Wake, And That We Still Retain Some Degree Of Power Even When Our Spirits Are Low. A Series Of Accidents Creates A Positively Light-hearted State, Out Of Consideration For This Strange Power.

The Sickly Cultural Pathos Which The Whole Of France Indulges In, That Fetishism Of The Cultural Heritage.

It Is The Real, And Not The Map, Whose Vestiges Subsist Here And There, In The Deserts Which Are No Longer Those Of The Empire But Our Own: The Desert Of The Real Itself.

If There Is A Species Which Is More Maltreated Than Children, Then It Must Be Their Toys, Which They Handle In An Incredibly Off-hand Manner. Toys Are Thus The End Point In That Long Chain In Which All The Conditions Of Despotic High-handedness Are In Play Which Enchain Beings One To Another, From One Species To Another --cruel Divinities To Their Sacrificial Victims, From Masters To Slaves, From Adults To Children, And From Children To Their Objects.