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Fresh, Green Life
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Capital: A Critiq...
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Walter Benjamin
“All efforts to make politics aesthetic culminate in one thing, war.”
Walter Benjamin

Rainer Werner Fassbinder
“And I don't believe that melodramatic feelings are laughable - they should be taken absolutely seriously.”
Rainer Werner Fassbinder

Rainer Werner Fassbinder
“Women think in [Douglas] Sirk’s films. Something which has never struck me with other directors. None of them. Usually women are always reacting, doing what women are supposed to do, but in Sirk they think. It’s something that has to be seen. It’s great to see women think. It gives one hope. Honestly.”
Rainer Werner Fassbinder

Michel Foucault
“The necessity of reform mustn’t be allowed to become a form of blackmail serving to limit, reduce, or halt the exercise of criticism. Under no circumstances should one pay attention to those who tell one: “Don’t criticize, since you’re not capable of carrying out a reform.” That’s ministerial cabinet talk. Critique doesn’t have to be the premise of a deduction that concludes, “this, then, is what needs to be done.” It should be an instrument for those for who fight, those who resist and refuse what is. Its use should be in processes of conflict and confrontation, essays in refusal. It doesn’t have to lay down the law for the law. It isn’t a stage in a programming. It is a challenge directed to what is.”
Michel Foucault, The Essential Foucault: Selections from the Essential Works of Foucault, 1954-1984

T.S. Eliot
“I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”
T.S Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

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