Tuesday, September 9, 2014                                                        Dreadful Joy


Everything not a seed is falling apart.

What we love of soul is never loved enough.

May inspiration be your stubborn joy.

Art follows a law that is neither moral nor legal, yet binding: 
Beauty lies in the insufficiency of things — and imagining how they suffice.

Hope is skeptical beauty.

Everything that unnerves reveals.

Freedom is effort.

We know, and we know we know, our world is made of stories.

How to define art? Imprisoned in liberties.

Soul is the joy of life’s mournful flow.

Your imagination is worth whatever your being is worth: 
your story is the story of you and bears witness to your light and to your darkness.

Art copies the incomprehensible.

All electrons are identical. They express the quantum field. They are not fundamental objects. And you and I, who are made of electrons?

Information is more fundamental than matter/energy. 
Just by thinking we brand the world with the fiery carbon of our brains. 
Mind your mind.

Death is still the secret of life, and fantasy is life’s truth.

Destiny is earned. Fate is owed.

Art, an appalled witness of beauty, invents truth.

Because it is elsewhere, we don’t believe it’s real. Because it can’t be had, we quest it. Because it can’t be found, it is nameless.

The enemy of art is certainty.

Dreams are not a lack of reality, rather all of it.

Listen to the untellable: Cassandra’s silence, the end of Hamlet’s verbal resources, the Tractatus: the word is an ear of the inexpressible.

Being human is accomplished as a dream. 
Art is sensual. It does not dream.

You are composed of powers of mass so imponderably small that even photons cannot illuminate them. Who are you — again?

Art is more original than the world.

Only violent beauty creates. All else is imitation.


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