The Timelessness Of Art Is Its Capacity

Unable To Create A Meaningful Life For Itself, The Personality Takes Its Own Revenge: From The Lower Depths Comes A Regressive Form Of Spontaneity: Raw Animality Forms A Counterpoise To The Meaningless Stimuli And The Vicarious Life To Which The Ordinary Man Is Conditioned. Getting Spiritual Nourishment From This Chaos Of Events, Sensations, And Devious Interpretations Is The Equivalent Of Trying To Pick Through A Garbage Pile For Food.

The Ultimate Gift Of Conscious Life Is A Sense Of The Mystery That Encompasses It.

The Philosophers Of Industrialism, From Bacon To Bentham, From Smith To Marx, Insisted That The Improvement Of Man's Condition Was The Highest Requirement Of Morality. But In What Did The Improvement Consist? The Answer Seemed So Obvious To Them That They Did Not Bother To Justify It: The Expansion And Fulfillment Of The Material Wants Of Man, And The Spread Of These Benefits, From The Few Who Had Once Preempted Them, To The Many Who Had So Long Lived On The Scraps Dives Had Thrown Into The Gutter.

The Very People Who Shudder Over The Cruelty Of The Hunter Are Apt To Forget That Slaughter, In The Grimmest Sense Of The Word, Is A Process They Entrust Daily To The Butcher; And That Unlike The Game Of The Forests, Even The Dumbest Creatures Of The Slaughterhouse Know What Is In Store For Them.

Today, The Notion Of Progress In A Single Line Without Goal Or Limit Seems Perhaps The Most Parochial Notion Of A Very Parochial Century.