Roman: So do we just, fucking, bash it's head in, or?

Shiv: It isn't our problem, right? We just leave it. Hands clean.

Kendall: Very, uh, maternal, Shiv. Leave the baby.

Connor: There are a lot of uses for an evil baby. I'm not saying that's what we should do, but....

Kendall: Roman's right. We kill it, or we get someone to kill it.

Shiv: So what, you just get to be the hero who saves the world from an evil baby?

Pyramid of the Sun, Teotihuacan, Mexico, from the photo album of the sculptor Angelica Archipenko. 1939-41.

What accounts for the repeated misfortunes of the rainbow in figurative painting? It may well be that an excess of ostentatious cuteness, by its provocative ready-made, found-it-so nature, alienates the true painter. But more likely, there is another cause: what prevents the integration of a rainbow into a painting is not an insurmountable technical difficulty, but rather the admission it represents, of the painter's failure to subject all natural elements, without exception, to the organized arbitrariness of their personal vision. The rainbow is the introduction, in the midst of a colorful symphony entirely written in a subjective key, of a dioptric formula resistant to any substitution. And such prohibitions signified by painting also apply to literature.