I Dream In Fire But Work In

It Appears To Me That It [sin] Is Simply An Attempt To Penetrate Into Another And Higher Sphere In A Forbidden Manner. You Can Understand Why It Is So Rare. There Are Few, Indeed, Who Wish To Penetrate Into Other Spheres, Higher Or Lower, In Ways Allowed Or Forbidden. Men, In The Mass, Are Amply Content With Life As They Find It. Therefore There Are Few Saints, And Sinners (in The Proper Sense) Are Fewer Still.

Here Then Is The Pattern In My Carpet, The Sense Of The Eternal Mysteries, The Eternal Beauty Hidden Beneath The Crust Of Common And Commonplace Things; Hidden And Yet Burning And Glowing Continually If You Care To Look With Purged Eyes.

If A Man Dreams That He Has Committed A Sin Before Which The Sun Hid His Face, It Is Often Safe To Conjecture That, In Sheer Forgetfulness, He Wore A Red Tie, Or Brown Boots With Evening Dress.

It Was Better, He Thought, To Fail In Attempting Exquisite Things Than To Succeed In The Department Of The Utterly Contemptible.

And There Were Other Rocks That Were Like Animals, Creeping, Horrible Animals, Putting Out Their Tongues, And Others Were Like Words I Could Not Say, And Others Like Dead People Lying On The Grass. I Went On Among Them, Though They Frightened Me, And My Heart Was Full Of Wicked Song They Put Into It; And I Wanted To Make Faces And Twist Myself About The Way They Did, And I Went On And On A Long Way Till At Last I Liked The Rocks And They Didn’t Frighten Me Any More