Genuine Polemics Approach A Book As Lovingly

No Poem Is Intended For The Reader, No Picture For The Beholder, No Symphony For The Listener.

We Have Long Forgotten The Ritual By Which The House Of Our Life Was Erected. But When It Is Under Assault And Enemy Bombs Are Already Taking Their Toll, What Enervated, Perverse Antiquities Do They Not Lay Bare In The Foundations.

Each Morning The Day Lies Like A Fresh Shirt On Our Bed; This Incomparably Fine, Incomparably Tightly Woven Tissue Of Pure Prediction Fits Us Perfectly. The Happiness Of The Next Twenty-four Hours Depends On Our Ability, On Waking, To Pick It Up.

The Camera Introduces Us To Unconscious Optics As Does Psychoanalysis To Unconscious Impulses.

To The Lover The Loved One Always Appears As Solitary.