Art Is A Statement Of

If Anything Might Hurt Her, Silence Would; And I Wanted To Hurt Her.

Like All Mystics (and Many Novelists, Not Least The Present One) He Is Baffled, A Child, Before The Real Now; Far Happier Out Of It, In A Narrative Past Or A Prophetic Future, Locked Inside That Weird Tence Grammar Does Not Allow, The Imaginary Present.

People Who Teach You Cram Old Ideas, Old Views, Old Ways, Into You. Like Covering Plants With Layer After Layer Of Old Earth; It's No Wonder The Poor Things So Rarely Come Up Fresh And Green.

Each Age, Each Guilty Age, Builds High Walls Around Its Versailles; And Personally I Hate Those Walls Most When They Are Made By Literature And Art.

I Was Too Green To Know That All Cynicism Masks A Failure To Cope - An Impotence, In Short; And That To Despise All Effort Is The Greatest Effort Of All.