Grace Is Gratuitous; It Is A Gift.

It Is Always Difficult To Give Oneself Up; Few Persons Anywhere Ever Succeed In Doing So, And Even Fewer Transcend The Possessive Stage To Know Love For What It Actually Is: A Perpetual Discovery, And Immersion In The Waters Of Reality, An Unending Re-creation.

Man, Even Man Debased By The Neocapitalism And Pseudosocialism Of Our Time, Is A Marvelous Being Because He Sometimes Speaks. Language Is The Mark, The Sign, Not Of His Fall But Of His Original Innocence. Through The Word We May Regain The Lost Kingdom And Recover Powers We Possessed In The Far-distant Past.

Mineral Cactai, Quicksilver Lizards In The Adobe Walls, The Bird That Punctures Space, Thirst, Tedium, Clouds Of Dust, Impalpable Epiphanies Of Wind. The Pines Taught Me To Talk To Myself. In That Garden I Learnedto Send Myself Off. Later There Were No Gardens.

What Sets Worlds In Motion Is The Interplay Of Differences, Their Attractions And Repulsions. Life Is Plurality, Death Is Uniformity. By Suppressing Differences And Pecularities, By Eliminating Different Civilizations And Cultures, Progress Weakens Life And Favors Death. The Ideal Of A Single Civilization For Everyone, Implicit In The Cult Of Progress And Technique, Impoverishes And Mutilates Us. Every View Of The World That Becomes Extinct, Every Culture That Disappears, Diminishes A Possibility Of Life

What Is Art? A Violet. Is That All? An Artistic Style Is A Living Entity, A Continuous Process Of Invention. It Can Never Be Imposed From Without; Born Of The Profoundest Tendencies Within A Society, Its Direction Is To A Certain Extent Unpredictable, In Much The Same Way As The Eventual Configuration Of A Tree's Branches.