Justice is a painted gendarme whose colors rub off in our hands. A gendarme that’s been painted, carved, encrusted in the foods we ingest. The trademark of our moribund society, of a nation unhinged, of men who don’t know how to hold on to the elegance they possessed as children, when man — that obese monster — happily slept.
“I want the thing itself. The reality of a work of art is no symbol, no imitation either of outer or inner Nature. It doesn’t imitate the pulse of the heart. It is its own self; it has its own pulse. Otherwise everything would be an imitation in relation to something. Perhaps that’s so: This something is God. Only I don’t like the word imitation.”
Anton Webern