In Our Day There Are No Longer

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.

I Have No Friends, There Are Only People I Love.

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.

That You Are Not Already Golden Word In Our Streets Already Memories Your Love Fades Already Whether You Are No Longer To Have Perished.

Geniuses Are Like Ocean Liners: They Should Never Meet.