We look to form to succor us from chaos. The palliative form need not possess anything more than the vaguest trace of organization. It can be the statue of Athena or the jazz tune Roquentin hears at the end of Nausea. Or, it can simply be the representation of formlessness itself for that representation is already a victory over the abject, a removal from it. The more immediate the threat of disintegration, the closer the aesthetic object will approximate the very thing it defends against. This is why in the modern period art is driven to simulate its own absence—as the last recourse against the disappearance of the last trace of meaning in a profaned world where the total dominion of quantity threatens the catastrophic desublimation of all objects.