There Is No Triumph Of Good, And

... He Felt Himself To Be One Of Them, Who Can Live Neither In The World Nor Out Of It. They Are A Kind Of Sick People, Whose Desire For God Makes Them Unsatisfactory Citizens Of An Ordinary Life, But Whose Strength Or Temperament Fails Them To Surrender The World Completely; And Present-day Society, With Its Hurried Pace And Its Mechanical And Technical Structure, Offers No Home To These Unhappy Souls.

There Is A Spider Called Amaurobius, Which Lives In A Burrow And Has Its Young In The Late Summer, And Then It Dies When The Frosts Begin, And The Young Spiders Live Through The Cold By Eating Their Mother's Dead Body. One Can't Believe That's An Accident. I Don't Know That I Imagined God As Having Thought It All Out, But Somehow He Was Connected With The Pattern, He Was The Pattern.

Art Is A Kind Of Artificial Memory And The Pain Which Attends All Serious Art Is A Sense Of That Factitiousness.

Love Is The Source Of Our Greatest Errors; But When It Is Even Partially Refined It Is The Energy And The Passion Of The Soul In Its Search For Good, The Force That Joins Us To Good And Joins Us To The World Through Good. Its Existence Is The Unmistakable Sign That We Are Spiritual Creatures, Attracted By Excellence And Made For The Good. It Is A Reflection Of The Warmth And Light Of The Sun.

Perhaps When Distant People On Other Planets Pick Up Some Wavelength Of Ours All They Hear Is A Continuous Scream.