Each Lost Soul Will Be A Hell

I Hear The Ruin Of All Space, Shattered Glass And Toppled Masonry, And Time One Livid Final Flame.

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

If There Is Any Difficulty In What I Write, It Is Because Of The Material I Use. The Thought Is Always Simple.

A Man's Errors Are His Portals Of Discovery.

He Wanted To Cry Quietly But Not For Himself: For The Words, So Beautiful And Sad, Like Music.