The Realisation Of One's Own Death Is

Old Age Is An Insult. It's Like Being Smacked.

Try And Travel With The Eyes Of The Spirit Wide Open, And Not Too Much Factual Information. To Tune In, Without Reverence, Idly -- But With Real Inward Attention. It Is To Be Had For The Feeling, That Mysterious Sense Of Rapport, Of Identity With The Ground. You Can Extract The Essence Of A Place Once You Know How. If You Just Get As Still As A Needle You'll Be There.

Guilt Always Hurries Towards Its Complement, Punishment: Only There Does Its Satisfaction Lie.

Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?

The Artist's Work Constitutes The Only Satisfactory Relationship He Can Have With His Fellow Men Since He Seeks His Real Friends Among The Dead And The Unborn.