“We suffer, we sensitive people, because our history runs counter to our culture . . . Do you see the difference between us and the Americans? I mean the difference in rank, which gave any gum-chewing GI the right to kick us in the ass with the heel of his boot when we bent over to pick up his cigarette butt? Not because we were beaten but because we had given ourselves up. Because we betrayed our dream of ANTHROPOLIS. We slip like marauders from the cities, where bulldozers are still digging out the last bombs of WWII. With full camping gear, we throw ourselves on the bosom of Mother Nature. The hero of the Western rides toward the city—the city he wants to help build, to cleanse of all evil, to turn into ANTHROPOLIS, city of mankind. These are two entirely different attitudes in the world. No wonder our city gnaws at our hearts like a black bug . . . We woeful heirs! We need nature in order to recover from the horror of a geometry withdrawn from life that surrounds our cultural rubble heaps. If we have sighed with relief in her bosom, if we have so rightly thrived there in the blackest night in which she has made a small feast of a few million dead, then we think again on our ancestral inheritance, on our old-fashioned heritage, on the wonders of our history. Slightly irritated because such and such of lesser artistic value has been handed down along with them. Come now: What would you think of a small act of cleansing in this regard as well: the wealth of culture straitified into art-historical eras and cleansed of all that is stylistically alien, purged of all that is stylistically held over. Thus correcting nature as well, making her developmental tendencies clearly visible, and perfecting them.