uviol_catharsis

Nobody as far as I can see is making use of those elements in the air, which give direction and motivation to our lives. This age demands violence, but we are getting only abortive explosions. Revolutions are nipped in the bud
or else succeed to quickly. Passion is quickly exhausted. Men fall back on ideas and habit. Nothing is proposed that can last more than 24 hours. We are living a million lives in the space of a generation. Our time is a skeleton dancing in the wind, serpents issuing from the rotted tongue and the bloated pages of ecstasy slimed with excrement. And I will join my slime, my excrement, my madness, my ecstasy to the great circuit which flow
through the subterranean vaults of flesh. All this
unbidden, unwanted, drunken vomit will flow endlessly through the minds of those to come in the inexhaustible vessel that contains the history of the race.

But there is another race.
A race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread
and the bread into wine
and the wine

into
song.