As An Artist One Has No Home

Never Trust A Thought That Didn't Come By Walking.

Christianity Has Done Its Utmost To Close The Circle And Declared Even Doubt To Be Sin. One Is Supposed To Be Cast Into Belief Without Reason, By A Miracle, And From Then On To Swim In It As In The Brightest And Least Ambiguous Of Elements: Even A Glance Towards Land, Even The Thought That One Perhaps Exists For Something Else As Well As Swimming, Even The Slightest Impulse Of Our Amphibious Nature

Through Searching Out Origins, One Becomes A Crab. The Historian Looks Backwards, And Finally He Also Believes Backwards.

The Public Easily Confuses Him Who Fishes In Troubled Waters With Him Who Draws Up Water From The Depths.

On The Rare Occasions When Our Dreams Succeed And Achieve Perfection - Most Dreams Are Bungled - The Are Symbolic Chains Of Scene And Images In Place Of A Narrative Poetic Language; They Circumscribe Our Experiences Or Expectations Or Situations With Such Poetic Boldness And Decisiveness That In The Morning We Are Always Amazed When We Remember Our Dreams.