Borges has once painted a world in which one’s destiny would be decided by lottery, whose verdicts one would accept without rancor. But imagine a world in which one’s destiny would be decided by some committee that would never explain or justify its verdicts, which one would accept without resentment or ill will. By comparison with the cold but impartial lottery, the committee would be so much more difficult to bear. Is this a figment of my unbridled imagination? Is this a world beyond the reach of fiction itself? No, it is the world of art at the end of the Twentieth Century. It is the world of art exemplified by such institutions as the Turner Prize among prizes.