Trend Is Not Destiny.

The Self Holds Both A Hell And A Heaven.

The City Is A Fact In Nature, Like A Cave, A Run Of Mackerel Or An Ant-heap. But It Is Also A Conscious Work Of Art, And It Holds Within Its Communal Framework Many Simpler And More Personal Forms Of Art. Mind Takes Form In The City; And In Turn, Urban Forms Condition Mind.

Every Work Of Art Is An Abstraction From Time; It Denies The Reality Of Change And Decay And Death.

Western Society Has Accepted As Unquestionable A Technological Imperative That Is Quite As Arbitrary As The Most Primitive Taboo: Not Merely The Duty To Foster Invention And Constantly To Create Technological Novelties, But Equally The Duty To Surrender To These Novelties Unconditionally, Just Because They Are Offered, Without Respect To Their Human Consequences.

When Art Seems To Be Empty Of Meaning, As No Doubt Some Of The Abstract Painting Of Our Own Day Actually Does Seem, What The Painting Says, Indeed What The Artist Is Shrieking At The Top Of His Voice, Is That Life Has Become Empty Of All Rational Content And Coherence, And That, In Times Like These, Is Far From A Meaningless Statement.