A Single Day Is Enough To Make

One Does Not Lash Hat Lies At A Distance. The Foibles That We Ridicule Must At Least Be A Little Bit Our Own. Only Then Will The Work Be A Part Of Our Own Flesh. The Garden Must Be Weeded.

I Have A Clear View Of 12 Years Of History Of My Inner Self. First The Cramped Self, That Self With Big Blinkers, Then The Disappearance Of The Blinkers And The Self, Now Gradually The Reemergence Of A Self Without Blinkers.

My Self . . . Is A Dramatic Ensemble. Here A Prophetic Ancestor Makes His Appearance. Here A Brutal Hero Shouts. Here An Alcoholic Bon Vivant Argues With A Learned Professor. Here A Lyric Muse, Chronically Love-struck, Raises Her Eyes To Heaven. Her Papa Steps Forward, Uttering Pedantic Protests. Here The Indulgent Uncle Intercedes. Here The Aunt Babbles Gossip. Here The Maid Giggles Lasciviously. And I Look Upon It All With Amazement, The Sharpened Pen In My Left Hand.

There Is Plenty Of Room Left For Exact Experiment In Art, And The Gate Has Been Opened For Some Time. What Had Been Accomplished In Music By The End Of The Eighteenth Century Has Only Begun In The Fine Arts. Mathematics And Physics Have Given Us A Clue In The Form Of Rules To Be Strictly Observed Or Departed From, As The Case May Be. Here Salutary Discipline Is Come To Grips First Of All With The Function Of Forms, And Not With Form As The Final Result … In This Way We Learn How To Look Beyond The Surface And Get To The Root Of Things.

Make Chance Essential.