For Me, It Was Like This: Pronounced

You Could Tell A Lot About A Man By The Books He Keeps - His Tastes, His Interest, His Habits.

The Art Of The Critic In A Nutshell: To Coin Slogans Without Betraying Ideas. The Slogans Of An Inadequate Criticism Peddle Ideas To Fashion.

Mechanical Reproduction Emancipates The Work Of Art From Its Parasitical Dependence On Ritual.

The Destructive Character Knows Only One Watchword: Make Room. And Only One Activity: Clearing Away. The Destructive Character Is Young And Cheerful. For Destroying Rejuvenates, Because It Clears Away The Traces Of Our Own Age; It Cheers, Because Everything Cleared Away Means To The Destroyer A Complete Reduction, Indeed A Rooting Out, Of His Own Condition.

Not To Find One's Way Around A City Does Not Mean Much. But To Lose One's Way In A City, As One Loses One's Way In A Forest, Requires Some Schooling. Street Names Must Speak To The Urban Wanderer Like The Snapping Of Dry Twigs, And Little Streets In The Heart Of The City Must Reflect The Times Of Day, For Him, As Clearly As A Mountain Valley. This Art I Acquired Rather Late In Life; It Fulfilled A Dream, Of Which The First Traces Were Labyrinths On The Blotting Papers In My School Notebooks.