As Long As There Is Still One

We Have Long Forgotten The Ritual By Which The House Of Our Life Was Erected. But When It Is Under Assault And Enemy Bombs Are Already Taking Their Toll, What Enervated, Perverse Antiquities Do They Not Lay Bare In The Foundations.

Language Has Unmistakably Made Plain That Memory Is Not An Instrument For Exploring The Past But Its Theater. It Is The Medium Of Past Experience, Just As The Earth Is The Medium In Which Dead Cities Lie Buried.

Boredom Is The Dream Bird That Hatches The Egg Of Experience. A Rustling In The Leaves Drives Him Away.

For Only That Which We Knew And Practiced At Age 15 Will One Day Constitute Our Attraction. And One Thing, Therefore, Can Never Be Made Good: Having Neglected To Run Away From Home.

History Breaks Down Into Images, Not Into Stories.