A Writer Never Has A

Every Work Of Art (unless It Is A Psuedo-intellectualist Work, A Work Already Comprised In Some Ideology That It Merely Illustrates, As With Brecht) Is Outside Ideology, Is Not Reducible To Ideology. Ideology Circumscribes Without Penetrating It. The Absence Of Ideology In A Work Does Not Mean An Absence Of Ideas; On The Contrary It Fertilizes Them.

I Am Told, In A Dream You Can Only Get The Answer To All Your Questions Through A Dream. So In My Dream, I Fall Asleep, And I Dream, In My Dream, That I'm Having That Absolute, Revealing Dream.

The Human Comedy Does Not Attract Me Enough. I Am Not Entirely Of This World. I Am From Elsewhere, And It Is Worth Finding This Elsewhere Beyond The Walls...but Where Is It?

I Believe That In The History Of Art And Of Thought There Has Always Been At Every Living Moment Of Culture A Will To Renewal. This Is Not The Prerogative Of The Last Decade Only. All History Is Nothing But A Succession Of Crises - Of Rupture, Repudiation And Resistance. When There Is No Crisis, There Is Stagnation, Petrifaction And Death. All Thought, All Art Is Aggressive.

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.