...with The End Of My Breath, Which

The Pure Playfulness Of Certain Wholly Whimsical Portions Of (charles) Cros’s Work Should Not Obscure The Fact That At The Center Of Some Of His Most Beautiful Poems A Revolver Is Leveled Straight At Us.

Beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.

There Is No Use Being Alive If One Must Work. The Event From Which Each Of Us Is Entitled To Expect The Revelation Of His Own Life’s Meaning - That Event Which I May Not Yet Have Found, But On Whose Path I Seek Myself - Is Not Earned By Work.

The Mere Word Freedom Is The Only One That Still Excites Me. I Deem It Capable Of Indefinitely Sustaining The Old Human Fanaticism. It Doubtless Satisfies My Only Legitimate Aspiration. Among All The Many Misfortunes To Which We Are Heir, It Is Only Fair To Admit That We Are Allowed The Greatest Degree Of Freedom Of Thought. It Is Up To Us Not To Misuse It. To Reduce The Imagination To A State Of Slavery-even Though It Would Mean The Elimination Of What Is Commonly Called Happiness-is To Betray All Sense Of Absolute Justice Within Oneself.

The Purest Surrealist Act Is Walking Into A Crowd With A Loaded Gun And Firing Into It Randomly