Love Is Made By Two People, In

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.

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

I Shall Always Rebel Against Any Attempt To Reduce A Human Being To A Kind Of Mannequin, Whose Deeds And Questions Would Be Comprehensible Like The Deeds And Gestures Of Monarchs Recorded Day After Day In Official Communiques. Six Months Of A Life Cannot Catalogue The Vitality, The Activity Of An Individual; Only Death Stops Development And Then, What Is Important Is The Overall Meaning Of A Life, Not The Details Of That Life, Edifying To Some, Scandalous To Others.

And There Are Loners In Rural Communities Who, At The Equinox, Are Said To Don New Garments And Stroll Down To The Cities, Where Great Beasts Await Them, Fat And Docile.

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.