An artist, by his very nature, is someone who dies, in order to express himself, through technique. This is, of course, often misused. The first to be called this were the middle class charlatans, speculative, and bogusly rebellious. But the concept itself is something worth considering. Art is not so much the selfish accumulation of wealth, as it is the selfless mimicry of Elohim, who, in yearning for emotion amidst the boredom, invented suffering. An art of pure pain is an art representative of man. Flaubert imagines he has analysed man, in representing him through the repetition of easy platitudes, when in fact man is defined through some emotionally charged style. When we represent pain, we can imagine the actuality of being, in contrast to the aetherial boredom, which is infinitely attractive. Beauty is the opposite of art, but neither is it speculative, dysgenic, art. It is not a coin, but a dice. The sages imagine there are lofty, paedomystic forms in the aether, brought down to this earth as some kind of arbitrary tool, when in reality Elohim's clique are a hall of marble cripples, deformed children, daemon, djinn, succubi, and imp, and were true emotion called down upon this earth, true art, true poiesis, we would gloriously suffer, in a great tower of flaming blue holocausts, like a samurai marching forward, through a shower of arrows.