It was the time when the future was an ism. Technology was making a modern epic out of human labour. It was the time when Fernando Pessoa made this metallic exclamation in the paroxysmal, paradoxical, relentless voice of Álvaro de Campos in the opening words of the verbal spark called Triumphal Ode:
By the painful light of the factory’s huge electric lamps I write in a fever. I write gnashing my teeth, rabid for the beauty of all this, For this beauty completely unknown to the ancients.
O wheels, O gears, eternal r-r-r-r-r-r-r!