Fiction Is A Branch Of

Along With Our Passivity, We're Entering A Profoundly Masochistic Phase Everyone Is A Victim These Days, Of Parents, Doctors, Pharmaceutical Companies, Even Love Itself. And How Much We Enjoy It. Our Happiest Moments Are Spent Trying To Think Up New Varieties Of Victimhood.

People Think That By Living On Some Mountainside In A Tent And Being Frozen To Death By Freezing Rain, They're Somehow Discovering Reality, But Of Course That's Just Another Fiction Dreamed Up By A Tv Producer.

In A Completely Sane World, Madness Is The Only Freedom.

Trying To Exhaust Himself, Vaughan Devised An Endless Almanac Of Terrifying Wounds And Insane Collisions: The Lungs Of Elderly Men Punctured By Door-handles; The Chests Of Young Women Impaled On Steering-columns; The Cheek Of Handsome Youths Torn On The Chromium Latches Of Quarter-lights. To Vaughan, These Wounds Formed The Key To A New Sexuality, Born From A Perverse Technology. The Images Of These Wounds Hung In The Gallery Of His Mind, Like Exhibits In The Museum Of A Slaughterhouse.

Hell Is Out Of Fashion - Institutional Hells At Any Rate. The Populated Infernos Of The 20th Century Are More Private Affairs, The Gaps Between The Bars Are The Sutures Of One's Own Skull. A Valid Hell Is One From Which There Is A Possibility Of Redemption, Even If This Is Never Achieved, The Dungeons Of An Architecture Of Grace Whose Spires Point To Some Kind Of Heaven. The Institutional Hells Of The Present Century Are Reached With One-way Tickets, Marked Nagasaki And Buchenwald, Worlds Of Terminal Horror Even More Final Than The Grave.