O Months Of Blossoming, Months Of Transfigurations,

I Must Confess That I And A Few Others Are Burdened With Heavy Responsibilities Regarding The Future Of Criticism. I Am Certainly, If Not The Inventor, Then At Least One Of The First Systematizers Of An Absurd Critical Practice That, As Soon As It Had Peeked Its Beak Out Of The Nest, Flapping Its New Wet Wings, Took Flight In The Minds Of The Young, Becoming A Wild Ox And Sowing Avant-garde Literature With The Mighty Tomes Of What Might As Well Be Called The Abstract Bear.

Fear Of Error Which Everything Recalls To Me At Every Moment Of The Flight Of My Ideas, This Mania For Control, Makes Men Prefer Reason's Imagination To The Imagination Of The Senses. And Yet It Is Always The Imagination Alone Which Is At Work.

In Our Day There Are No Longer Any Ideas, Or They Are Scarcer Than Hens' Teeth.

Everything That Is Not Me Is Incomprehensible.

Your Imagination, My Dear Fellow, Is Worth More Than You Imagine.