What will I do on the shortest night of the last year of the millennium, only a week from now, when artists from around the world have been invited to Hyde Park in London to burn their own works and thereby celebrate the end of art? When it gets dark, I will walk into the Park with a copy of the 1996 edition of my Residua; I will look for any sign of fire, no matter how feeble and tentative; and I will toss the accursed book into the first blaze I discover. Chances are I will be walking by only a few others with awkward packages under their arms. They, too, will be casting around in vain and twitching at every sound, as if demented.