Words Are The Supreme Objects. They Are

Literature Is Composed Of Quarter Truths, And The Quarters Are Often Spent On Penny Candy.

The Death Of God Represents Not Only The Realization That Gods Have Never Existed, But The Contention That Such A Belief Is No Longer Even Irrationally Possible: That Neither Reason Nor The Taste And Temper Of The Times Condones It. The Belief Lingers On, Of Course, But It Does So Like Astrology Or A Faith In A Flat Earth.

[as] Authorities "over" Us Are Removed, As We Wobble Out On Our Own, The Question Of Whether To Be Or Not To Be Arises With Real Relevance For The First Time, Since The Burden Of Being Is Felt Most Fully By The Self-determining Self.

So To The Wretched Writer I Should Like To Say That There’s One Body Only Whose Request For Your Caresses Is Not Vulgar, Is Not Unchaste, Untoward, Or Impolite: The Body Of Your Work Itself; For You Must Remember That Your Attentions Will Not Merely Celebrate A Beauty But Create One; That Yours Is Love That Brings It Own Birth With It, Just As Plato Has Declared, And That You Should Therefore Give Up The Blue Things Of This World In Favor Of The Words Which Say Them

Philosophy Has A Great Sort Of Appeal In Terms Of An Artistic Or Aesthetic Organization Of Concepts. It's A Conceptual Art.