The Artist Has A Twofold Relation To

In Politics As On A Sickbed Men Toss From Side To Side In Hope Of Lying More Comfortably.

True Observers Of Nature, Although They May Think Differently, Will Still Agree That Everything That Is, Everything That Is Observable As A Phenomenon, Can Only Exhibit Itself In One Of Two Ways. It Is Either A Primal Polarity That Is Able To Unify, Or It Is A Primal Unity That Is Able To Divide. The Operation Of Nature Consists Of Splitting The United Or Uniting The Divided; This Is The Eternal Movement Of Systole And Diastole Of The Heartbeat, The Inhalation And Exhalation Of The World In Which We Live, Act, And Exist.

Then To The Depths! - I Could As Well Say Height: It's All The Same.

The Bed Of Flowers Loosens Amain, The Beauteous Snowdrops Droop O'er The Plain. The Crocus Opens Its Glowing Bud, Like Emeralds Others, Others, Like Blood. With Saucy Gesture Primroses Flare, And Roguish Violets, Hidden With Care; And Whatsoever There Stirs And Strives, The Spring's Contented, If Works And Thrives.

The Web Of This World Is Woven Of Necessity And Chance. Woe To Him Who Has Accustomed Himself From His Youth Up To Find Something Necessary In What Is Capricious, And Who Would Ascribe Something Like Reason To Chance And Make A Religion Of Surrendering To It.