Democracy has shown its true face today. Nothing remains but to write, write, write. Nothing remains but to f***, f***, f***.
What happened to art, when it has fallen down the dregs of society, into what is now known as popular culture?
What has happened when a man, the star of the people, not for virtue but for some hidden message, or dream that was unspoken except in so many words, made his way onto the most powerful seat of the world—nay, was lifted there by the very same people who worshipped him?
It is clear then that with enough publicity, a man may elevate himself to the status of a god. And it matters not whether this man be a born entertainer; the masses will find in him something to exalt, something to worship, something to hold up only because in the depths of their hearts envy stirs, envy that is cognizant of its own impotence, and therefore lives its dream vicariously.
It is common for man to say, “I couldn’t do this,” or “I couldn’t do that.”
But it so often happens that when man wills, his will is in some fashion or other granted, and man finds himself again, accomplishing that which a moment before he had just doubted being capable of, to realize that it was only the belief that stopped him.
And if we find ourselves stuck in a murky pool from which we see no escape; if we yearn for a new day when the sun will shine bright and we may say that the day’s work was worth it; if we want to look our children in the eye and promise them that bringing them to be was worth it—then shed all your beliefs, and step naked into the limelight, where possibilities never end!