Whether or not you ‘like’ a landscape is unimportant. It does not ask you for your opinion. If it is there, your opinion counts as nothing. A landscape leaves the mind DESOLATE. It makes lymph (the soul) flow, not blood. You do not associate. No more synthesis. It doesn’t follow on. Leave it for later. You pray to heaven, to provide for you in your wretchedness. The wretchedness of the soul rubbed raw by the tiderace of matter.

Jean-Francois Lyotard, “Scapeland”