Its elements forever twined, interlocked, forcibly bent into a static social beauty, this and like stylings ring tragic with me. They bespeak not only the necessity of relation, but necessary relations. With those, the individual is made a node, and his creation, like the metalsmith’s, an accident of immanent utility. At least polyphony can be groaned, panted, beaten out in the subject’s precious time, even improvised. This bird cannot sing.
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