Every Man Is Made Of Clay And

Journeys, Like Artists, Are Born And Not Made. A Thousand Differing Circumstances Contribute To Them, Few Of Them Willed Or Determined By The Will-whatever We May Think.

The Whole Mediterranean, The Sculpture, The Palm, The Gold Beads, The Bearded Heroes, The Wine, The Ideas, The Ships, The Moonlight, The Winged Gorgons, The Bronze Men, The Philosophers - All Of It Seems To Rise In The Sour, Pungent Taste Of These Black Olives Between The Teeth. A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.

Sorrow Is Implicit In Love As Gravitation Is Implicit In Mass.

Everything Really Desirable Has Come About Because Of, Or In Spite Of, Wine!

We Are All Hunting For Rational Reasons For Believing In The Absurd.