Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got

By Some Chance, Here They Are, All On This Earth; And Who Shall Ever Tell The Sorrow Of Being On This Earth, Lying, On Quilts, On The Grass In A Summer Evening, Among The Sounds Of The Night. May God Bless My People, My Uncle, My Aunt, My Mother, My Good Father, Oh, Remember Them Kindly In Their Time Of Trouble; And In The Hour Of Their Taking Away.

Children, Taught Either Years Beneath Their Intelligence Or Miles Wide Of Relevance To It, Or Both: Their Intelligence Becomes Hopelessly Bewildered, Drawn Off Its Centers, Bored, Or Atrophied.

The Artist's Task Is Not To Alter The World As The Eye Sees It Into A World Of Aesthetic Reality, But To Perceive The Aesthetic Reality Within The Actual Reality. (on Photographs By Helen Levitt)

As A Whole Part Of "psychological Education" It Needs To Be Remembered That A Neurosis Can Be Valuable; Also That "adjustment" To A Sick And Insane Environment Is Of Itself Not "health" But Sickness And Insanity.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.