We Are All Born In The Same

I Desire To Press In My Arms The Loveliness Which Has Not Yet Come Into The World.

In The Particular Is Contained The Universal.

Any Object, Intensely Regarded, May Be A Gate Of Access To The Incorruptible Eons Of The Gods.

The Incompatibility Of Aquacity With The Erratic Originality Of Genius.

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.