There's No Geist Like The Zeitgeist.

Perhaps The Rhinos And She-crocodiles Whose Gyrations Between Mortimer's And East Hampton Gives Us Our Vision Of Social Eminence Today Are Content To Entrust Their Faces To Andy Warhol's Mingily Cosmetic Polaroidising, But One Would Bet They Would Rather Go To Sargent.

Everything That Would Be Said Against The Eixample's Heirs, From Le Corbusier's 'ville Radieuse' To Oscar Niemeyer's Brasilia, Was Already Said, With Far Less Justice, About The Eixample Itself. And All Its Critics Concurred That The Basic Mistake Was To Have Left The Planning Of A City In The Hands Of A Socialist.

One Gets Tired Of The Role Critics Are Supposed To Have In This Culture: It's Like Being The Piano Player In A Whorehouse; You Don't Have Any Control Over The Action Going On Upstairs.

I Have Never Been Against New Art As Such; Some Of It Is Good, Much Is Crap, Most Is Somewhere In Between.

When The War (wwi) Finally Ended It Was Necessary For Both Sides To Maintain, Indeed Even To Inflate, The Myth Of Sacrifice So That The Whole Affair Would Not Be Seen For What It Was: A Meaningless Waste Of Millions Of Lives. Logically, If The Flower Of Youth Had Been Cut Down In Flanders, The Survivors Were Not The Flower: The Dead Were Superior To The Traumatized Living. In This Way, The Virtual Destruction Of A Generation Further Increased The Distance Between The Old And The Young, Between The Official And The Unofficial.