Who Knows But That, On

When I Discover Who I Am, I'll Be Free.

Perhaps To Lose A Sense Of Where You Are Implies The Danger Of Losing A Sense Of Who You Are.

The Blues Is An Impulse To Keep The Painful Details And Episodes Of A Brutal Experience Alive In One's Aching Consciousness, To Finger Its Jagged Grain, And To Transcend It, Not By The Consolation Of Philosophy But By Squeezing From It A Near-tragic, Near-comic Lyricism. As A Form, The Blues Is An Autobiographical Chronicle Of Personal Catastrophe Expressed Lyrically.

Meaning Grows In The Mind, But The Shape And Form Of The Act Remains.

Life Is To Be Lived, Not Controlled, And Humanity Is Won By Continuing To Play In Face Of Certain Defeat.