There Are Strange Flowers Of Reason To

I Must Confess That I And A Few Others Are Burdened With Heavy Responsibilities Regarding The Future Of Criticism. I Am Certainly, If Not The Inventor, Then At Least One Of The First Systematizers Of An Absurd Critical Practice That, As Soon As It Had Peeked Its Beak Out Of The Nest, Flapping Its New Wet Wings, Took Flight In The Minds Of The Young, Becoming A Wild Ox And Sowing Avant-garde Literature With The Mighty Tomes Of What Might As Well Be Called The Abstract Bear.

Everything That Is Not Me Is Incomprehensible.

I Have No Friends, There Are Only People I Love.

Language Was Not Given To Man: He Seized It.

The Rose Is Born Evil ... But It Is Pink.