Crudités
I enjoy vomiting the "Shit of thought", which should be expelled like so much excrement. In short, everything that harms and does not belong to the construction of one's own identity; everything that betrays it or keeps it under wraps: stupid educational principles, a priori respect and mimicry of ideologies foreign to oneself, a feeling of creeping obligation to be accepted by a community...
As Victor says about the spider and the nettle - not Dr. Frankenstein, but his friend old Hugo - I love hate because we hate it.
My great adaptability is an absolute violence to me. I hate any relationship that forces me to do so. Rare is the one that goes the way I want it to.
Artists at fault, artists too weak, unable to save this world from a predatory terror... Artistic ultra-violence, where are you hiding?
Artists, the real ones who would have something to say, hate the world and won't say anything to it, right? And it's much better that way, isn't it?
When you're shocked by anything that exists, it's because you've made up your mind about the world but you don't know anything about it.
The true individual venturing out of his isolation room, faints on contact with the air. He refuses to be legibly embodied in his words and deeds...
Attempted social evasion | There's no room for social chatter here. Not even on a good morning. And that's just as well.
Start by undermining the basis of my nature. Set the moral high ground and wait for the... cement to set... the wide asses of the cows that live here...
The path to hell is paved with good feelings as much as the road to the Wizard of Oz is paved with sparkling golden bricks. Nociousness.
Time veils backwards, throws a theatrical tulle over the detailed vision of ancient crimes. The tragic beauty of history is more congenial than the impending horror.
