The Grand Thing About The Human Mind

Our Poetry Now Is The Realization That We Possess Nothing. Anything Therefore Is A Delight (since We Do Not Posses It) And Thus Need Not Fear Its Loss.

A Sound Does Not View Itself As Thought, As Ought, As Needing Another Sound For Its Elucidation, As Etc.; It Has Not Time For Any Consideration--it Is Occupied With The Performance Of Its Characteristics: Before It Has Died Away It Must Have Made Perfectly Exact Its Frequency, Its Loudness, Its Length, Its Overtone Structure, The Precise Morphology Of These And Of Itself.

In The Dark, All Cats Are Black.

What Is The Purpose Of Writing Music? One Is, Of Course, Not Dealing With Purposes But Dealing With Sounds. Or The Answer Must Take The Form Of A Paradox: A Purposeful Purposeless Or A Purposeless Play. This Play, However, Is An Affirmation Of Life--not An Attempt To Bring Order Out Of Chaos Nor To Suggest Improvements In Creation, But Simply A Way Of Waking Up To The Very Life We’re Living, Which Is So Excellent Once One Gets One’s Mind And One’s Desires Out Of Its Way And Lets It Act Of Its Own Accord.

Food, One Assumes, Provides Nourishment; But Americans Eat It Fully Aware That Small Amounts Of Poison Have Been Added To Improve Its Appearance And Delay Its Putrefaction.