Clear To Me At Last That The

I Have Nothing But Wastes And Wilds Of Self-translation Before Me For Many Miserable Months To Come.

Try Again. Fail Again. Try Better.

To Be An Artist Is To Fail, As No Other Dare Fail, That Failure Is His World And The Shrink From Desertion, Art And Craft, Good Housekeeping, Living.

Go On Failing. Go On. Only Next Time, Try To Fail Better.

In Reality We Are One And All From The Unthinkable First To The No Less Unthinkable Last Glued Together In A Vast Imbrication Of Flesh Without Breach Or Fissure