Drosselmeier Had Unwittingly Exposed Himself To An

Art Need No Longer Be An Account Of Past Sensations.

Mother Is In Herself A Concrete Denial Of The Idea Of Sexual Pleasure Since Her Sexuality Has Been Placed At The Service Of Reproductive Function Alone. She Is The Perpetually Violated Passive Principle; Her Autonomy Has Been Sufficiently Eroded By The Presence Within Her Of The Embryo She Brought To Term. Her Unthinking Ability To Reproduce, Which Is Her Pride, Is, Since It Is Beyond Choice, Not A Specific Virtue Of Her Own.

Sad; So Sad, Those Smoky-rose, Smoky-mauve Evenings Of Late Autumn, Sad Enough To Pierce The Heart.

He Is, I Think, Already Pondering A Magisterial Project: That Of Buggering The English Language, The Ultimate Revenge Of The Colonialised.

The Invisible Is Only Another Unexplored Country, A Brave New World.