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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