Blue Is Therefore Most Suitable

The Word Itself Has Another Color. It’s Not A Word With Any Resonance, Although The E Was Once Pronounced. There Is Only The Bump Now Between B And L, The Relief At The End, The Whew. It Hasn’t The Sly Turn Which Crimson Takes Halfway Through, Yellow’s Deceptive Jelly, Or The Rolled-down Sound In Brown. It Hasn’t Violet’s Rapid Sexual Shudder Or Like A Rough Road The Irregularity Of Ultramarine, The Low Puddle In Mauve Like A Pancake Covered In Cream, The Disapproving Purse To Pink, The Assertive Brevity Of Red, The Whine Of Green.

Literature Is Composed Of Quarter Truths, And The Quarters Are Often Spent On Penny Candy.

Knowing Has Two Poles, And They Are Always Poles Apart: Carnal Knowing, The Laying On Of Hands, The Hanging Of The Fact By Head Or Heels, The Measurement Of Mass And Motion, The Calibration Of Brutal Blows, The Counting Of Supplies; And Spiritual Knowing, Invisibly Felt By The Inside Self, Who Is But A Fought-over Field Of Distraction, A Stage Where We Recite The Monotonous Monologue That Is Our Life, A Knowing Governed By Internal Tides, By Intimations, Motives, Resolutions, By Temptations, Secrecy, Shame, And Pride.

Works Of Art Are Meant To Be Lived With And Loved, And If We Try To Understand Them, We Should Try To Understand Them As We Try To Understand Anyone — In Order To Know Them Better, Not In Order To Know Something Else.

The Things That Stayed Were Things That Didn't Matter Except They Stayed, Night And Day, All Seasons The Same, And Were Peaceful To A Fault And Boded No Ill But Thought Well Enough Of Themselves To Repeat Their Presences.