It's All Very Well To Tell Us

The Irregular And Intimate Quality Of Things Made Entirely By The Human Hand.

After All, The Supreme Virtue In All Art Is Soul, Perhaps It Is The Only Thing Which Gives Art A Right To Be.

William Tavener Never Heeded Ominous Forecasts In The Domestic Horizon, And He Never Looked For A Storm Until It Broke.

This Is Reality, Whether You Like It Or Not--all Those Frivolities Of Summer, The Light And Shadow, The Living Mask Of Green That Trembled Over Everything, They Were Lies, And This Is What Was Underneath. This Is The Truth.

It Is A Tragic Hour, That Hour When We Are Finally Driven To Reckon With Ourselves, When Every Avenue Of Mental Distraction Has Been Cut Off And Our Own Life And All Its Ineffaceable Failures Closes About Us Like The Walls Of That Old Torture Chamber Of The Inquisition.