Welcome. You are one of a group of about ten people chosen through a rigorous selection process to become privy to the material posted herewith. I apologise for the hermetic references and inside-jokes; however, I flatter myself that there will still be plenty to amuse and provoke you in spite of this. And yes, this is what I have been doing while marooned in camp.

'You provide desolation,' wrote George Sand, 'and I provide consolation.' To which Flaubert replied, 'I cannot change my eyes.' The work of art is a pyramid which stands in the desert, uselessly: jackals piss at the base of it, and bourgeois clamber to the top of it; continue this comparison. Do you want art to be a healer? Send for the Ambulance George Sand. Do you want art to tell the truth? Send for the Ambulance Flaubert: though don't be surprised, when it arrives, if it runs over your leg. Listen to Auden: 'Poetry makes nothing happen.' Do not imagine that Art is something which is designed to give gentle uplift and self-confidence. Art is not a brassière. At least, not in the English sense. But do not forget that brassière is the French for life-jacket.
Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot