The Art Of Storytelling Is Reaching Its

Not To Find One's Way Around A City Does Not Mean Much. But To Lose One's Way In A City, As One Loses One's Way In A Forest, Requires Some Schooling. Street Names Must Speak To The Urban Wanderer Like The Snapping Of Dry Twigs, And Little Streets In The Heart Of The City Must Reflect The Times Of Day, For Him, As Clearly As A Mountain Valley. This Art I Acquired Rather Late In Life; It Fulfilled A Dream, Of Which The First Traces Were Labyrinths On The Blotting Papers In My School Notebooks.

... [l]ess Than At Any Time Does A Simple Reproduction Of Reality Tell Us Anything About Reality. A Photograph Of The Krupp Works Or Gec Yields Almost Nothing About Those Institutions. Reality Proper Has Slipped Into The Functional. The Reification Of Human Relationships, The Factory, Let's Say, No Longer Reveals These Relationships. Therefore Something Has To Be Constructed, Something Artificial, Something Set Up.

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

Melancholy Betrays The World For The Sake Of Knowledge. But In Its Tenacious Self-absorption It Embraces Dead Objects In Its Contemplation, In Order To Redeem Them

This Is How One Pictures The Angel Of History. His Face Is Turned Toward The Past. Where We Perceived A Chain Of Events, He Sees One Single Catastrophe Which Keeps Piling Wreckage And Hurls It In Front Of His Feet. The Angel Would Like To Stay, Awaken The Dead, And Make Whole What Has Been Smashed. But A Storm Is Blowing From Paradise; It Has Got Caught In His Wings With Such Violence That The Angel Can No Longer Close Them. This Storm Irresistably Propels Him Into The Future To Which His Back Is Turned, While The Pile Of Debris Before Him Grows Skyward. The Storm Is What We Call Progress.