Surely That Little Pseudo-gothic Church On Broadway,

Our Characteristic Response To The Mutilated Statue, The Bronze Dug Up From The Earth, Is Revealing. It Is Not That We Prefer Time-worn Bas-reliefs, Or Rusted Statuettes As Such, Nor Is It The Vestiges Of Death That Grip Us In Them, But Those Of Life. Mutilation Is The Scar Left By The Struggle With Time, And A Reminder Of It - Time Which Is As Much A Part Of Ancient Works Of Art As The Material They Are Made Of, And Thrusts Up Through The Fissures, From A Dark Underworld, Where All Is At Once Chaos And Determinism.

The Artist Is Not The Transcriber Of The World, He Is Its Rival.

Every Young Man's Heart Is A Graveyard In Which Are Inscribed The Names Of A Thousand Dead Artists But Whose Only Actual Denizens Are A Few Mighty, Often Antagonistic, Ghosts.

Though Man's Feeling For The Other-worldly Often Has Recourse To Solitude, Solitude Does Not Foster Its Development; Rather, It Is Nourished By Communion, To Which The Church Is More Propitious Than The Cemetery.

A Political Leader Is Necessarily An Imposter Since He Believes In Solving Life's Problems Without Asking Its Question.