| Books | Our reason has driven all away. Alone at last, we end up by ruling over a desert. What imagination could we have left for that higher equilibirum in which nature balanced history, beauty, virtue and which applied the music of numbers even to blood-tragedy? We turn our backs on nature; we are ashamed of beauty. Our wretched tragedies have a smell of the office clinging to them, and the blood that trickles from them is the color of printer's ink.
Albert Camus
"... but we are Americans, Kilgore, and not Chinamen. We Americans require symbols which are richly colored and three-dimensional and juicy. Most of all, we hunger for symbols which have not been poisoned by great sins our nation has committed, such as slavery and genocide and criminal neglect, or by tinhorn commercial greed and cunning."
Breakfast of Champions
The millions of human beings who were shot, tortured, gaoled, starved, treated like animals and made the objects of a conspiracy of ridicule, can sleep in peace in their communal graves, for at least the struggle in which they died has enabled their descendants, isolated in their air-conditioned apartments, to believe, on the strength of their daily dose of television, that they are happy and free.
Raoul Vaneigem
A drawing, in Commando blackface-grease, of a man looking closely at a flower. In the distance, or smaller, appears to be a woman, approaching. Or some kind of elf, or something. The man isn't looking at her (or it). In the middle distance are haystacks. The flower is shaped like the cunt of a young girl. There is a luminary looking down from the sky, the face on it totally at peace, like the Buddha's. Underneath, someone else has written, in English: Good drawing! Finish! and underneath that, in another hand, It IS finished you nit. And so are you. Nearby, in German, I loved you Lisele with all my heart - no name, rank, unit or serial number.
Gravity's Rainbow
LIPSTICK TRACES
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