When We Are Weary, We Speak Lovingly

In Spite Of All The Refinements Of Civilization That Conspired To Make Art--the Dizzying Perfection Of The String Quartet Or The Sprawling Grandeur Of Fragonard's Canvases--beauty Was Savage. It Was As Dangerous And Lawless As The Earth Had Been Eons Before Man Had One Single Coherent Thought In His Head Or Wrote Codes Of Conduct On Tablets Of Clay. Beauty Was A Savage Garden.

Don't You See? I'm Not The Spirit Of Any Age. I'm At Odds With Everything And Always Have Been! I Have Never Belonged Anywhere With Anyone At Any Time!

… In The Relentless And Meaningless Manner One Searches For Something In A Nightmare, Coming On Doors That Won’t Open Or Drawers That Won’t Shut, Struggling Over And Over Against The Same Meaningless Thing, Not Knowing Why The Effort Seems So Desperate, Why The Sudden Sight Of A Chair With A Shawl Thrown Over It Inspires The Mind With Horror.

To Learn And To Love, That Is What We Are Here For, Any Activity Which Is Not Grounded In One Of These Two Is A Waste Of Time.

Aren't There Gradations Of Evil? Is Evil A Great Perilous Gulf Into Which One Falls With The First Sin, Plummeting To The Depth?