Mikä lopulta erottaisi (muista) eläimistä?

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. (Eliot)

1/365 Milos Forman: Amadeus, Charles Dickens: Bleak House
2/365 Eliot: The Waste Land, Eurovision winners, Kiss

Non vedo che abbia più un senso insistere sulla dicotomia tra arte “alta” e “bassa”. Però voglio alzare quella “bassa”, non abbassare “l’alta”. Arte sempre arte resta.