Everything That Is Not Me Is Incomprehensible.

What On Earth Is Modern Exegesis Up To? Oh, Little Lazy One! Some Red Wine And Up! Off You Go, Brandishing Your Fork, Stripped Of Ophelia's Useless Ornaments, Fire In Your Large Nostrils, Out To Rake The Muck Of Metaphors.

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

No More Painters, No More Scribblers, No More Musicians, No More Sculptors, No More Religions, No More Royalists, No More Radicals, No More Imperialists, No More Anarchists, No More Socialists, No More Communists, No More Proletariat, No More Democrats, No More Republicans, No More Bourgeois, No More Aristocrats, No More Arms, No More Police, No More Nations, An End At Last To All This Stupidity, Nothing Left, Nothing At All, Nothing, Nothing.

The Whole Fauna Of Human Fantasies, Their Marine Vegetation, Drifts And Luxuriates In The Dimly Lit Zones Of Human Activity, As Though Plaiting Thick Tresses Of Darkness. Here, Too, Appear The Lighthouses Of The Mind, With Their Outward Resemblance To Less Pure Symbols. The Gateway To Mystery Swings Open At The Touch Of Human Weakness And We Have Entered The Realms Of Darkness. One False Step, One Slurred Syllable Together Reveal A Man's Thoughts.

Geniuses Are Like Ocean Liners: They Should Never Meet.