He Who Goes Against The Fashion Is

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

The Truth Is That The Phenomena Of Artistic Production Are Still So Obscure, So Baffling, We Are Still So Far From An Accurate Scientific And Psychological Knowledge Of Their Genesis Or Meaning, That We Are Forced To Accept Them As Empirical Facts; And Empirical And Non-explanatory Names Are The Names That Suit Them Best.

How Can They Say My Life Is Not A Success? Have I Not For More Than Sixty Years Got Enough To Eat And Escaped Being Eaten?

Those Who Talk On The Razor-edge Of Double-meanings Pluck The Rarest Blooms From The Precipice On Either Side.

Those Who Set Out To Serve Both God And Mammon Soon Discover That There Isn't A God.