What’s Any Artist, But The

That Was Youth With Its Reckless Exuberance When All Things Were Possible Pursued By Age Where We Are Now, Looking Back At What We Destroyed, What We Tore Away From That Self Who Could Do More, And Its Work That's Become My Enemy Because That's What I Can Tell You About, That Youth Who Could Do Anything.

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

Power Doesn't Corrupt People; People Corrupt Power.

He Was Doing Missionary Work. But From The Outset He Had Little Success In Convincing His Charges Of Their Responsibility For A Sin Committed At The Beginning Of Creation, One Which, As They Understood It, They Were Ready And Capable (indeed, They Carried Charms To Assure It) Of Duplicating Themselves. He Did No Better Convincing Them That A Man Had Died On A Tree To Save Them All: An Act Which One Old Indian, If Gwyon Had Translated Correctly, Regarded As "rank Presumption".

He Walked Out Into The Cold Morning Asking Himself This Heretical Question: Can You Start Measuring A Minute At Any Instant You Wish?