However, there comes a time when the enlightened mind must defrost the ice of its own symbols. We must remove ourselves from our worshipful stasis—we must rage against the stagnancy of idolatry. All of this, ultimately, is to return to the God we have willfully betrayed, renewed in our love. (A better God would have loved the Devil for his audacity; therefore, when we transgress against God by will, we will be loved by a better God, in return for having taught him grace.)

In this photographic essay, books are violently destroyed. I do not suggest suppression of these titles. By all means, literary crap must flow freely through the public libraries, if only to make the literary roses more sweetly scented. I condone the destruction of a book, provided that the destroyer is not a Platonist, and that the individual book does not represent the ideal of Book. When the book merely represents the post-mortem presence of its author, it may be dealt with as passion demands.

Specifically in the case of Henry James, a book represents the greatest smear against the English language that I, personally, have ever had the misfortune to encounter. In Henry James, I have discovered a very convincing argument for illiteracy.

Next.