God Doesn't Believe In The Easy Way.

It's Kind Of A Test, Mary, And It's The Only Kind That Amounts To Anything. When Something Rotten Like This Happens, Then You Have Your Choice. You Start To Really Be Alive, Or You Start To Die. That's All.

For In The Immediate World, Everything Is To Be Discerned, For Him Who Can Discern It, And Central And Simply, Without Either Dissection Into Science, Or Digestion Into Art, But With The Whole Of Consciousness, Seeking To Perceive It As It Stands: So That The Aspect Of A Street In Sunlight Can Roar In The Heart Of Itself As A Symphony, Perhaps As No Symphony Can: And All Of Consciousness Is Shifted From The Imagined, The Revisive, To The Effort To Perceive Simply The Cruel Radiation Of What Is.

...but You Are Too Much For Them: The Weak In Courage Are Strong In Cunning; And One By One, You Have Absorbed And Have Captured And Dishonored, And Have Distilled Of Your Deliverers The Most Ruinous Of All Poisons; People Hear Beethoven In Concert Halls, Or Over A Bridge Game, Or To Relax; Cézannes Are Hung On Walls, Reproduced, In Natural Wood Frames; Van Gogh Is The Man Who Cut Off His Ear And Whose Yellows Became Recently Popular In Window Decoration.

I Know I Am Making The Choice Most Dangerous To An Artist In Valuing Life Above Art.

God Doesn't Believe In The Easy Way.