In one hour in Venice. In one hour in Paris. In one hour in Vienna. In one hour in Berlin. That is the radius, if one starts in Munich. With the press of a button on the TV screen, in the whole world. With cars and photographs we enjoy the world, the price that we pay for it is high. With every press of the button, with every hand movement, with every step we must know what we are doing or giving up, every one for himself, or what we have to pay.
The price is thought, art and feelings. Whoever does things faster today is at an advantage. Film clip — speed, but when does art arise from it and when only business?
Whoever grasps at the stars and looks into the inside of the elements must be mature enough for it. If he wants to resist losing everything that went before. A world where this maturity of age is scorned is suspicious.
Whoever wants the establishment of restlessness as art and the aesthetics of chaos, glorifies it as the real task of culture, must know what he has lost and it is not only the West. And all the branches on which we sat, broken, of history, not only of our post-war aesthetics in Germany. On the other hand: “...and he knew that even things have their tears.”190