Not believing that your body brilliant as it was and your fat, liquid spirit distinguished and angry as it was were stable quantities to which one could return on wires more than once, twice, or another number of times I said: ‘See the table?’
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Can an ars erotica be an epic or heroic art? Would it be but a minor art — flower arranging of tropical orchids, after the swords have been melted into the transistor circuitry that is programming the final epidemic and the unending nuclear winter? Where is there the master that could tell?
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Alphonso Lingis | Foreign Bodies