Love Is Made By Two People, In

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.

There Are Strange Flowers Of Reason To Match Each Error Of The Senses. Admirable Gardens Of Absurd Beliefs, Forebodings, Obsessions And Frenzies. Unknown, Ever-changing Gods Take Shape There.

Error Is Certainty's Constant Companion. Error Is The Corollary Of Evidence. And Anything Said About Truth May Equally Well Be Said About Error: The Delusion Will Be No Greater.

It Is Time To Return To Close Reading, To A Serious And Painstaking Examination Of An Author's Methods, Of His Style. Do Not Be Deterred By Headaches. First Of All, This Would Be Proof Of Your Lack Of Stamina. And Then, Migraines, Piercing Pain And Sudden Stabs At The Temples Are More Likely The Effects Of Syphilis Than Of Hard Work.

Photography Intervenes In A Very Strange Way. It Makes The Streets, Gates, Squares Of The City Into Illustrations Of A Trashy Novel, Draws Off The Banal Obviousness Of This Ancient Architecture To Inject It With The Most Pristine Intensity.