If It Were Not For

The Recognition Of The Truth That We Get In The Artist's Work Comes To Us As A Revelation Of New Truth. We Did Not Know It Before, But The Moment It Is Shown To Us, We Know That, Somehow Or Other, We Had Always Known It.

A Society In Which Consumption Has To Be Artificially Stimulated In Order To Keep Production Going Is A Society Founded On Trash And Waste, For Such A Society Is A House Built Upon Sand.

That There Is A Secret Itself Is A Secret.

Fantasy Works Inwards Upon Its Author, Blurring The Boundary Between The Visioned And The Actual, And Associating Itself Ever Moreclosely With The Ego, So That The Child Who Has Fantasied Himself A Murderer Ends By Becoming A Loeb Or A Leopold. The Creative Imagination Works Outwards, Steadily Increasing The Gap Between The Visioned And The Actual, Till This Becomes The Great Gulf Fixed Between Art And Nature. Few Writers Of Crime-stories Become Murderers--if Any Do, It Is Not The Result Of Identifying Themselves With Their Murderous Heroes.

People Who Prefer To Believe The Worst Of Others Will Breed War And Religious Persecutions While The World Lasts.