There Are Strange Flowers Of Reason To

Yes, I Read. I Have That Absurd Habit. I Like Beautiful Poems, Moving Poetry, And All The Beyond Of That Poetry. I Am Extraordinarily Sensitive To Those Poor, Marvelous Words Left In Our Dark Night By A Few Men I Never Knew.

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.

There Are Strange Flowers Of Reason To Match Each Error Of The Senses.

Light Is Meaningful Only In Relation To Darkness, And Truth Presupposes Error. It Is These Mingled Opposites Which People Our Life, Which Make It Pungent, Intoxicating. We Only Exist In Terms Of This Conflict, In The Zone Where Black And White Clash.

O Reason, Reason, Abstract Phantom Of The Waking State, I Had Already Expelled You From My Dreams, Now I Have Reached A Point Where Those Dreams Are About To Become Fused With Apparent Realities: Now There Is Only Room Here For Myself.