A platonic humour from our regions
Beyond the atrocious and useless deaths, the greatest victim of the ravages of the present era is a sense of humour.
culture
Civilization is better than culture.
To become civilised is to make the effort to develop within oneself the art of being liveable for others. It is the individual progressive act par excellence.
To praise cultures is to encourage tribalism and value-centred traditionalism. All cultures are the same, and they all come together in the same self-centredness that passes for uniqueness.
Beyond the atrocious and useless deaths, the greatest victim of the ravages of the present era is a sense of humour.
Me, I spend my nights in the shelter. From everything. Sheltered from you, in spite of your suavely mellow voice that's so concerned with radio, hygienic and concerned.
Why is it that when I walk into a theater, do I want to leave? Why when I randomly open a book, do I look forward to closing it?
To remain silent would be a decent way of stifling thought, which will always be the painful expression of an order given to oneself by one's own mental bourgeoisie.
To decry sexual exhibition is to deny the reality of coitus, the most banal of our realities, in favour of an illusion of self, the mother of all violence.
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?
One morning, or rather one night, a new blog was born in my little family of sites, a messed-up blog, designed to collect spelling mistakes with a ladle.
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.
Artists die like so many other endangered species. Their territories are restricted, their voices are discreetly silenced.