“Our existence can be more in the love of beauty, and seeking it in the contemplation of a single object. Isolation from the world does not come into question any more than any feeling of how much we may observe under close arrest.” (page 29)
It was a most unexpected transformation: my aura shone almost as brightly as a shriek of laughter, and it gave me a treasured peace of mind that was so necessary. It was as though a layer of turquoise varnish had been covering me with self-consciousness.
“A single idea can be coexistent with a thought in reference to the frame or canvas. I am thinking of the unit as a matter of proportion when the amount of space allowed the unit has the dimensions of the only thing that remains to engage us.” (page 211)
What paradigm will emerge as rock-tombs freeze? Will it continue along existing lines of inquiry or return to earlier dress with the utmost luxury. This is a small glass of wine with a whimpering sense of suffering perhaps.
“Art history is, in this respect, like a meteor rubbed smooth with the air of collaborative discourse while lightning flashed. Many artists have been applauded by kind and sanguine critics, and this has encouraged them to persevere proprioceptively, refusing answerability.” (page 211)
I have announced new measures to prevent undocumented migrants entering the fine thread of my mainstream thoughts, while signifying that on that darkening water I lay beside myself with anxiety.
“Effects in the arts are seen beneath the surface of our society, but, as was said a moment ago, it sometimes seems to be supposed that the dynamics of youth cultures are designed to function as a temporary substitute for the effects of light and shade, whereby bright features are correspondent to the ideological status quo.” (page 187)
Without being seen, I saw what was going on inside the cave. The sound was coming from me. It was a fairly narrow scream and, given the size of my vocal chords, I remembered a small tank in which three American miners were frozen in a state of voluptuous ecstasy, crouched around a small can of sardines.
“Certain art will appeal only to other poets, producing a not unlikely story in someone’s little black note-book. Essaying art criticism, strictly esoteric criticism, may then stimulate enough detachment to question ideologies of objectivity and authorship.” (page 355)
What is the “real world” (however that might be artificially constructed)? I have never myself witnessed a dirt road continuing into oblivion. Have you? Dismissed out of hand as an unwanted intrusion, it has always been my habit to develop an immense beard and telephone all my friends.
running the whole length of the horizon...