ANONYMOUS UNKNOWNS

If my heart is saddened by the stubborn longing to do, to have the universal stupidity of the universal stump digging its tiny pin-pointed circles into my flesh, as if I were to scour the streets of the headless capital and crawl into the protective shell of reason, soberly arguing with itself! And I keep thinking of you, the fiction that urges modernity and renewal in the feverishness of the fiction that has been undeservedly forgotten amidst the cavalcade of colourful tarpaulins and serially produced scandal-books.

His fame-men of barely five minutes' fame are crushed by greedy success, a career bed of madness. With my strange insect life, I am like the unknown, forgotten authors who, from the cheaply trodden tunnels of mole tunnels, no matter how hard they try with enviable, stubborn diligence, cannot strive towards the known! And as they, with their pen-wearing magic-gifted hymns, write in succession on paper, they banish the dull, immoral superficiality of this vile age, and perhaps even encourage me with their works, so that I may have reason enough to believe in the appointed task of literature, which cannot have as its merely original aim the juicy, pungent, provocative entertainment.

Those who, with the demons that strain and torment us, are always in the light of the brilliant intellect - even by cometary light it would be well to give the intellect a new will. And in the midst of all the alamusian, vile, self-aggrandizing advertising nonsense, it will, after the delusion, also overcome itself, for it will help the world of the noble service of the self-giving, to understand itself as a human being and to reflect on the world of fame and fame-obsessed sneakiness, serving as an example, like the conscious heralds of the shadows lurking in the night, in the world of the day!