The More Horrible This World (as Today,

My Hand Is Entirely The Implement Of A Distant Sphere. It Is Not My Head That Functions But Something Else, Something Higher, Something Somewhere Remote. I Must Have Great Friends There, Dark As Well As Bright. They Are All Very Kind To Me.

Art Does Not Reflect What Is Seen, Rather It Makes The Hidden Visible.

Light And The Rational Forms Are Locked In Combat; Light Sets Them Into Motion, Bends What Is Straight, Makes Parallels Oval, Inscribes Circles In The Intervals, Makes The Intervals Active.

A Single Day Is Enough To Make Us A Little Larger Or, Another Time, A Little Smaller.

What My Art Probably Lacks Is A Kind Of Passionate Humanity... There Is No Sensuous Relationship, Not Even The Noblest, Between Myself And The Many.