Culture is dead.
It committed suicide because it had become successful. The liberation of language, a poetics of freedom of the word, the Futurists' parole in liberta, the jouissance of schizophrenic discourse, the transrational zaum of the Russians, all fit perfectly into their preordained boxes, gagging them forever. The violence of pure heterology runs rampant in the streets. Poetry has no impact on people. Right when they think it does, they are furthest from its transmuting power, to which the weak look back in nostalgia.