Writers, You Know, Are The Beggars Of

Literature Is The Expression Of A Feeling Of Deprivation, A Recourse Against A Sense Of Something Missing. But The Contrary Is Also True: Language Is What Makes Us Human. It Is A Recourse Against The Meaningless Noise And Silence Of Nature And History.

The Ideal Of A Single Civilization For Everyone, Implicit In The Cult Of Progress And Technique, Impoverishes And Mutilates Us

Cubism Had Been An Analysis Of The Object And An Attempt To Put It Before Us In Its Totality; Both As Analysis And As Synthesis, It Was A Criticism Of Appearance. Surrealism Transmuted The Object, And Suddenly A Canvas Became An Apparition: A New Figuration, A Real Transfiguration.

What Is Art? A Violet. Is That All? An Artistic Style Is A Living Entity, A Continuous Process Of Invention. It Can Never Be Imposed From Without; Born Of The Profoundest Tendencies Within A Society, Its Direction Is To A Certain Extent Unpredictable, In Much The Same Way As The Eventual Configuration Of A Tree's Branches.

Today We All Speak, If Not The Same Tongue, The Same Universal Language. There Is No One Center, And Time Has Lost Its Former Coherence: East And West, Yesterday And Tomorrow Exist As A Confused Jumble In Each One Of Us. Different Times And Different Spaces Are Combined In A Here And Now That Is Everywhere At Once.