Posted by Anonymous on 2020/11/09 under Life Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big
mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain
– (if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely
grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence). But supposing life to
be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to
extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the
sole basis for agreement: art. It is not as important as we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been
proclaiming for centuries. Art afflicts no one and those who mana ge to take an interest in it
will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation.
Art is a private affair, the artist produces it for himself, an intelligible work is the product of
a journalist, and because at this moment it strikes my fancy to combine this monstrosity with
oil paints: a paper tube simulating the metal that is automatically pressed and poured hatred
cowardice villainy. The artist, the poet rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a
section chief of this industry, he is happy to be insulted: it is a proof of his immutability.
When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is a proof of the intelligibility of his
work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to
the warmth of an animal brooding vile instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh reproducing with the
help of typographical microbes.