I Did Not Want To Write, But

To Be An Artist Is To Fail, As No Other Dare Fail, That Failure Is His World And The Shrink From Desertion, Art And Craft, Good Housekeeping, Living.

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

Silence And Darkness Were All I Craved. Well, I Get A Certain Amount Of Both. They Being One.

For To Know Nothing Is Nothing, Not To Want To Know Anything Likewise, But To Be Beyond Knowing Anything, To Know You Are Beyond Knowing Anything, That Is When Peace Enters In, To The Soul Of The Incurious Seeker.

I Did Not Want To Write, But I Had To Resign Myself To It In The End.