Is Death That Which Gives Meaning To

The Question So Often Asked Of Modern Painting, "what Is It?", Contains More Than The Dull Skepticism Of The Man Who Is Not Going To Have The Wool Pulled Over His Eyes. It Speaks Of A Fundamental Placement In Relation To The Work, That Of A Voyager In The World Coming Upon A Strange Object. The Reader Reconstitutes The Work By His Active Participation, By Approaching The Object, Tapping It, Shaking It, Holding It To His Ear To Hear The Roaring Within. It Is Characteristic Of The Object That It Does Not Declare Itself All At Once, In A Rush Of Pleasant Naïveté.

I Don't Believe That We Are What We Do Although Many Thinkers Argue Otherwise. I Believe That What We Do Is, Very Often, A Poor Approximation Of What We Are -- An Imperfect Manifestation Of A Much Better Totality. Even The Best Of Us Sometimes Bite Off, As It Were, Less Than We Can Chew.

My Mother Studied English And Drama At The University Of Pennsylvania, Where My Father Studied Architecture. She Was A Great Influence In All Sorts Of Ways, A Wicked Wit.

His Examiner Said Severely: "baskerville, You Blank Round, Discursiveness Is Not Literature." "the Aim Of Literature," Baskerville Replied Grandly, "is The Creation Of A Strange Object Covered With Fur Which Breaks Your Heart."

Endings Are Elusive, Middles Are Nowhere To Be Found, But Worst Of All Is To Begin, To Begin, To Begin.