Clippings
To all appearances he was down and out. He sat doubled in two, his hands on his knees, his legs astraddle, his head sunk. For a moment I wondered if he was not vomiting. But on drawing nearer I could see he was merely scrutinizing, between his feet, a lump of dogshit.
— Samuel Beckett, Rough for Theatre II
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- John Lanchester Writes on Marx
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- Cattelan at the Guggenheim
- Broomberg, and Other Conversations about #OccupyWallStreet
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- 1198
- The Repository of Sentiments
- Years Passed
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