Nothing Ever Quite Dies, It Just Comes

... The Twin Concepts Of Nihilism And The Antihero Have Had It. What Began With The Wild One And James "nobody Understands Me" Dean, Ran With Increasing Vehement Negativism Up Through The Stones And Velvets And Iggy ... [i]t May Be Time, In Spite Of All Indications To The Contrary From The Exterior Society, To Begin Thinking In Terms Of Heroes Again, Of Love Instead Of Hate, Of Energy Instead Of Violence, Of Strength Instead Of Cruelty, Of Action Instead Of Reaction.

What All This Posturing And Fake Glamor Results In Is A Vast Detachment And Cynicism On The Part Of The Artists. Since It's Impossible To Have Respect For An Audience That'll Take Just About Anything You Care To Dish Out, And The Impassive Demeanor Is So Central To The Role, A General Numbnose Is All That Can Be Expected.

Style Is Originality; Fashion Is Fascism. The Two Are Eternally And Unalterably Opposed.

All The Proliferating Falsifications Of What I And Everyone I Know Experienced Once In What It Is Now So Convenient To Call The "fifties" Or "sixties," As If Life Was Really Measured Or Lived In Arbitrary Decades, When The History Books Are Sold Like Comix.

The Real Question Is What To Live For. And I Can't Answer It. Except Another One Of Your Records. And Another Chance For Me To Write. Art For Art's Sake, Corny As That Sounds.