Many Of Us Who Walk To And

Life, Unlike The Inanimate, Will Take The Long Way Round To Circumvent Barrenness. A Kind Of Desperate Will Resides Even In A Root.

It Has Been Said That Great Art Is The Night Thought Of Man. It May Emerge Without Warning From The Soundless Depths Of The Unconscious, Just As Supernovas May Blaze Up Suddenly In The Farther Reaches Of Void Space.

We Are One Of Many Appearances Of The Thing Called Life; We Are Not Its Perfect Image, For It Has No Perfect Image Except Life, And Life Is Multitudinous And Emergent In The Stream Of Time.

It Is Frequently The Tragedy Of The Great Artist, As It Is Of The Great Scientist, That He Frightens The Ordinary Man.

Every Man Contains Within Himself A Ghost Continent.