I Would Die Happy If I Knew

Today, The Notion Of Progress In A Single Line Without Goal Or Limit Seems Perhaps The Most Parochial Notion Of A Very Parochial Century.

Because Of Their Origin And Purpose, The Meanings Of Art Are Of A Different Order From The Operational Meanings Of Science And Technics: They Relate, Not To External Means And Consequences, But To Internal Transformations, And Unless It Produce These Internal Transformations The Work Of Art Is Either Perfunctory Or Dead.

We Have Lost Faith In The Formal Powers Of The Mind, Not, As Some Suppose, Because Our Universe Is Too Difficult To Grasp, But Because We Lack The Inner Principle Of Order.

The Cities And Mansions That People Dream Of Are Those In Which They Finally Live.

When Art Seems To Be Empty Of Meaning, As No Doubt Some Of The Abstract Painting Of Our Own Day Actually Does Seem, What The Painting Says, Indeed What The Artist Is Shrieking At The Top Of His Voice, Is That Life Has Become Empty Of All Rational Content And Coherence, And That, In Times Like These, Is Far From A Meaningless Statement.