Writers, You Know, Are The Beggars Of

The Ideal Of A Single Civilization For Everyone, Implicit In The Cult Of Progress And Technique, Impoverishes And Mutilates Us

I Sat At The Foot Of A Huge Tree, A Statue Of The Night, And Tried To Make An Inventory Of All I Had Seen, Heard, Smelled, And Felt: Dizziness, Horror, Stupor, Astonishment, Joy, Enthusiasm, Nausea, Inescapable Attraction. What Had Attracted Me? It Was Difficult To Say: Human Kind Cannot Bear Much Reality.

The Universe Unfolds In The Body, Which Is Its Mirror And Its Creature.

Cubism Had Been An Analysis Of The Object And An Attempt To Put It Before Us In Its Totality; Both As Analysis And As Synthesis, It Was A Criticism Of Appearance. Surrealism Transmuted The Object, And Suddenly A Canvas Became An Apparition: A New Figuration, A Real Transfiguration.

Beyond Myself, Somewhere, I Wait For My Arrival.