666. Somewhere in the bushes a man with a Nikon Camera takes a shot of that self same baboon, and rushed home to load it to his computer, posts it to his blog, pins it on Pinterest. Such images are a pathetic remembrance of the actual work of art and it takes an effort of will to care about it, it is only pixels on a screen. It may stay posted to the internet for a hundred years, and the actual event may have lasted a millisecond, but the actual event is the work of art, and the other a fading echo.
667. "But," said Buboni, "From what angle, and what point of view has this nature of yours looked at that landscape; with what apparatus does it file it into a memory. A landscape can be viewed from infinite points of view, and it changes, atom by atom, every millisecond, therefore this god of your imagination manages to remember, and also 'swoon' over an infinite times infinite set of images, multiplied by the infinity that the passage of time contributes.
668. I am sure this god of yours is keeping track of the other things going on in the universe down to dust floating in the sunlight, so he must come down with terrible migraines now and then, since none of that information, images, or events, ever leads to any conclusion, has a plot or a climax that would have made it worthwhile to recall. Just a lot of effort to no purpose. We know you think the sun thinks a lot of itself, and mountains shed tears, but I think it is a crock.