@ck52045642 A local friend said when I visited that he wanted to show me the "dark underbelly" of Tokyo but it was just the black-containment zone in Shinjuku.
It's not enough. Flaubert sacrificed everything to the Idea except his hope of salvation; he spent his final days staring through windows at young families, muttering to himself how right they are, how right they are.
The choice to depict fashionable youths classicizing the pastoral through their presence, rather than as incompatible city-boys ripe for rural sadism, was a gesture as foreign to us now as placing the softest David at the mouth of Medici Palace.
The city's final fruit, the educated silk-stockinged youth who abandons town for the country, bringing courtesans he can ignore once he's there. A parody of the Renaissance maxim "let things be in their rightful place," becomes a defining image of the era.
Man is so ashamed of the simplicity of his talents, he would spend the next century after the Enlightenment carving sculptures of himself cowering at the feet of his first victim, woman. After that he would jingle unpredictability as an excuse for not getting out of bed.
Awful. Utterly dreadful. Voluntary mummification. Life of a pendulum. The ultimate horror of the Enlightenment. Complete victory of reason and order over the beautiful terrifying unpredictability of the human spirit. Twenty-seven years of the exact same day. I could never.
The first stone of the most beautiful Palazzo in Florence was laid at dawn, August 6th, 1489, at the moment when the predictable motions of the planets were predicted to be the most conducive to the display of power.