There Is Not Past, No Future; Everything

A Dim Antagonism Gathered Force Within Him And Darkened His Mind As A Cloud Against Her Disloyalty: And When It Passed, Cloudlike, Leaving His Mind Serene And Dutiful Towards Her Again, He Was Made Aware Dimly And Without Regret Of A First Noiseless Sundering Of Their Lives.

By An Epiphany He Meant A Sudden Spiritual Manifestation, Whether In The Vulgarity Of Speech Or Of Gesture Or Memorable Phrase Of The Mind Itself. He Believed It Was For The Man Of Letters To Record These Epiphanies With Extreme Care (saving Them For Later Use, That Is), Seeing That They Themselves Are The Most Delicate And Evanescent Of Moments.

Secrets, Silent, Stony Sit In The Dark Palaces Of Both Our Hearts: Secrets Weary Of Their Tyranny: Tyrants Willing To Be Dethroned.

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

To Learn One Must Be Humble. But Life Is The Great Teacher.