The art is not ours – we are possessed by it, and like the shaman we are a conduit for the greater, wider life (not some god or demon we are channeling). It, meaning the art and the life, is neither cruelty nor pleasure (see Artaud); it neither exists nor does it not exist. It is eternal flux and does not admit of the logic of language. It does admit, however, of the ecstatics of language.