Thoughts of the Apocalypse are like restaurant ambience. Now eat your steak…
The Apocalypse is a primitive’s desire: one wants to own what is left.
If I can’t have you no one will: Apocalypse is a Utopian snit, representing the bare knuckles of Ideal Governance.
Utopias are Apocalypses as staged by a frustrated scourge.
Utopias are constructed every time a person is disabused of humanity; whenever anyone has the sensation that no perfection can come from man; — that is — when one begins to manufacture a nostalgia for improvement.
Perfection is a term with no opposite, consisting totally of formal restrictions, and yet it is the freshest aspect of history—it crackles when you open it.
Utopias are ghosts of some unloosed Apocalypse, a weak-willed genocide. All Utopias place restraints upon their populations, either by decree or by “size of venue”; islands, valleys, asteroids. Plastic domes.
Utopia suggests sleep, while Anarchy represents play. Monarchy calls to mind an extended childhood. Democracy rarely calls anything to mind in particular.
Order is odorless; this is why so many find it comforting.