Welcome To The Desert Of The Real.

Americans May Have No Identity, But They Do Have Wonderful Teeth.

It Is The Real, And Not The Map, Whose Vestiges Subsist Here And There, In The Deserts Which Are No Longer Those Of The Empire But Our Own: The Desert Of The Real Itself.

Never Resist A Sentence You Like, In Which Language Takes Its Own Pleasure And In Which, After Having Abused It For So Long, You Are Stupefied By Its Innocence.

Santa Barbara Is A Paradise; Disneyland Is A Paradise; The U.s. Is A Paradise. Paradise Is Just Paradise. Mournful, Monotonous, And Superficial Though It May Be, It Is Paradise. There Is No Other.

One Of The Pleasures Of Travel Is To Dive Into Places Where Others Are Compelled To Live And Come Out Unscathed, Full Of The Malicious Pleasure Of Abandoning Them To Their Fate.