It Is Through The Cracks In Our

The Truth Is That The Phenomena Of Artistic Production Are Still So Obscure, So Baffling, We Are Still So Far From An Accurate Scientific And Psychological Knowledge Of Their Genesis Or Meaning, That We Are Forced To Accept Them As Empirical Facts; And Empirical And Non-explanatory Names Are The Names That Suit Them Best.

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

Charming People Live Up To The Very Edge Of Their Charm, And Behave As Outrageously As The World Will Let Them.

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

If They Lost The Incredible Conviction That They Can Change Their Wives Or Husbands, Marriage Would Collapse At Once.