After the Second World War, everything, including a resurrected culture, has been destroyed without realizing it; humankind continues to vegetate, creeping along after events that even the survivors cannot really survive, on a rubbish heap that has made even reflection on one's own damaged state useless.
Theodor Adorno, 'Trying to Understand Endgame'
(thanks to Institute for sending this my way. For those apologists of capital who use the metaphor of "green shoots" to envision the glimmers of hope rising beneath the glacial weight of the crisis, consider this other form, this determined pathetic kudzu creep of that which knows it is broken but cannot help itself. This may very well wind up as an epigraph to the apocalypse book, although given my tendencies, it will need to be followed with words of a different tone, a little more of a crooked grin. A graveside smile to cut through the heavy fog of gloom with some sharp and joyful doom.)