I Would I Could Stand On A

Between Truth And The Search For It, I Choose The Second.

I Walk In The Garden, I Look At The Flowers And Shrubs And Trees And Discover In Them An Exquisiteness Of Contour, A Vitality Of Edge, Or A Vigour Of Spring, As Well As An Infinite Variety Of Colour That No Artefact I Have Seen In The Last Sixty Years Can Rival...each Day, As I Look, I Wonder Where My Eyes Were Yesterday.

Who Will Free Me From Hurry, Flurry, The Feeling Of A Crowd Pushing Behind Me, Of Being Hustled And Crushed? How Can I Regain Even For A Minute The Feeling Of Ample Leisure I Had During My Early, My Creative Years? Then I Seldom Felt Fussed, Or Hurried. There Was Time For Work, For Play, For Love, The Confidence That If A Task Was Not Done At The Appointed Time, I Easily Could Fit It Into Another Hour. I Used To Take Leisure For Granted, As I Did Time Itself.

Pessimism Like Calumny Is Easy To Do, And Attracts Immediate Attention. The Gossiper And The Writer May Find This Out Soon Enough, And A Little Encouragement From The Current Mood Will Procure Them Successes That Bring Endless Imitators In Their Trail. On The Other Hand Saying Good Things About Life In General And Individuals In Particular And Making It Interesting Is A Serious Task Which Few Can Achieve With Credit.

The Artist, Depicting Man Disdainful Of The Storm And Stress Of Life, Is No Less Reconciling And Healing Than The Poet Who, While Endowing Nature And Humanity, Rejoices In Its Measureless Superiority To Human Passions And Human Sorrows.