The artists are really a race of misery that I loathe. Worse still, the art lover: the pure finished idiot who believes from the top of his mental bourgeoisie that there is greatness in not wanting to melt into the commonplace where he already is. But the artist, worse than the worst, kills the precious in him as surely as the rest of the social world can do it, ruthlessly and with a smile. The artist is the most vile exploiter of the natural poetry of which he is the unfortunate receptacle and repository - and which he would do well to keep quiet, rather than encourage the common man to believe that he knows what he is talking about when he thinks he admires a work. The artist in the making is the first culprit, the first murderer of this sympathetic child he shelters in his body. The sex of the young artist is an Aladdin's lamp that needs to be polished to make the genie spurt out and ooze his three most cherished wishes: Fame, Wealth, Recognition! Glory, Wealth, Recognition!

What does he not first put to death all this adult offspring, starting with his progenitors, before allowing himself the first verse, the first brushstroke, the first song emanating from his lips. No other witness than himself should unfortunately be his public and all would be peaceful in the world, in ignorance of beauty. For no childhood is preserved here below and the corpses pile up, lying on paper like whores on their slaughter beds. Kilometres of tails thread their way through the Grand Palais, as if between the thighs of a perpetual teenager who recovers his virginity with each new hang of his stained briefs, stretched over splendid golden frames. What a thrill!

The regression is the pinnacle of my relationship with the world and I despise all the authors who spend endless time correcting their papers rather than going to cum or wipe themselves to pleasure in sheets soaked with the mixture of their sweat, intimate moods and chocolate bars ready to melt. Soon to be as popular as the turgid phallus and pussy in the symbol department, the great fluidity of transit is set to take centre stage in our hearts. The InstitutionsThey become, little by little, the immense providential basins we have been calling for - with their glazed and slippery white edges - poetically devoted to the function of passer-by and offered to our citizen asses. They incite by the brilliance of their brilliance, to the diarrheic production of authors well in front of the hole. I respect them for the efficiency of their siphon and the authenticity of their gap towards nothingness. It's up to me to shit properly in it, right in the centre to spare the edges, like an elite of the nation aiming for the depths as much as the heights.