I Never Want To Be The Producer

And In Time It Will Be As Though Men Had Never Come To This Perfect Corner Of The World-never Called It Paradise On Earth, Never Despoiled It With Their Dream Factories; And In The Golden Hush Of The Afternoon All That Will Be Heard Will Be The Flittering Of Dragonflies, And The Murmur Of Hummingbirds As They Pass From Bower To Bower, Looking For A Place To Sup Sweetness.

Darkness Always Had Its Part To Play. Without It, How Would We Know When We Walked In The Light? It’s Only When Its Ambitions Become Too Grandiose That It Must Be Opposed, Disciplined, Sometimes—if Necessary—brought Down For A Time. Then It Will Rise Again, As It Must.

The Whole Point About Vision Is That It's Very Individual, It's Very Personal, And It Has To Be Confessional. It Has To Be Something Which Hurts - The Pulling Out Of It And Putting It On The Page Hurts. Art Can Be About The Individual Writer's Response To His Or Her Condition, And If That Response Comes Out Of A Predigested Belief About What The Audience Wants To Hear About The Writer's Condition, Then It Has No Truth, It Has No Validity. You Either Write With Your Own Blood Or Nobody's. Otherwise It's Just Ink.

If We Have Nothing To Do But Service Our Own Pleasure - Because Society Has Taught Us That's All We're Worth And We're Exiled From Positions Of Authority From Which We Could Actually Shape Society - Then We Just Become Hedonists. Eventually, Despite How Great It May Look On Saturday Night, Come Monday Morning There's Just Purposelessness.

Did I Say That She Was Beautiful? I Was Wrong. Beauty Is Too Tame A Notion; It Evokes Only Faces In Magazines. A Lovely Eloquence, A Calming Symmetry; None Of That Describes This Woman’s Face. So Perhaps I Should Assume I Cannot Do It Justice With Words. Suffice It To Say That It Would Break Your Heart To See Her; And It Would Mend What Was Broken In The Same Moment; And You Would Be Twice What You’d Been Before.