Only For The Sake Of The Hopeless

The Nourishing Fruit Of The Historically Understood Contains Time As A Precious But Tasteless Seed.

The Experience Of Our Generation: That Capitalism Will Not Die A Natural Death.

You Follow The Same Paths Of Thought As Before. Only, They Appear Strewn With Roses.

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.

The Crowd Is The Veil Through Which The Familiar City Beckons To The Flâneur As Phantasmagoria-now A Landscape, Now A Room.