For me, it is as though at every moment the actual world had completely lost its actuality. As though there was nothing there as though there were no foundations for anything or as though it escaped us. Only one thing, however, is vividly present the constant tearing of the veil of appearances the constant destruction of everything in construction. Nothing holds together, everything falls apart.
The light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of all. I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware of the unreality, the evanescence of the world, a fleeting image in the moving water.
The universe seems to me infinitely strange and foreign. At such a moment I gaze upon it with a mixture of anguish and euphoria separate from the universe, as though placed at a certain distance outside it I look and I see pictures, creatures that move in a kind of timeless time and spaceless space, emitting sounds that are a kind of language I no longer understand or ever register.
Realism, whether it be socialist or not, falls short of reality. It shrinks it, attenuates it, falsifies it it does not take into account our basic truths and our fundamental obsessions love, death, astonishment. It presents man in a reduced and estranged perspective. Truth is in our dreams, in the imagination.
I believe that in the history of art and of thought there has always been at every living moment of culture a ''will to renewal.'' This is not the prerogative of the last decade only. All history is nothing but a succession of ''crises'' -- of rupture, repudiation and resistance. When there is no ''crisis,'' there is stagnation, petrifaction and death. All thought, all art is aggressive.