What My Art Probably Lacks Is A

Everything Vanishes Round Me And Good Works Rise From Me Of Their Own Accord.

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

I Cannot Be Grasped In The Here And Now, For My Dwelling Place Is Much Among The Dead, As The Yet Unborn, Slightly Closer To The Heart Of Creation Than Usual, But Still Not Close Enough.

It Is The Artistic Mission To Penetrate As Far As May Be Toward That Secret Ground Where Primal Law Feeds Growth.

What My Art Probably Lacks Is A Kind Of Passionate Humanity... There Is No Sensuous Relationship, Not Even The Noblest, Between Myself And The Many.