My, How Beautiful Is War! Its Songs,

Without Poets, Without Artists... Everything Would Fall Apart Into Chaos. There Would Be No More Seasons, No More Civilizations, No More Thought, No More Humanity, No More Life Even; And Impotent Darkness Would Reign Forever. Poets And Artists Together Determine The Features Of Their Age, And The Future Meekly Conforms To Their Edit.

Joy Always Came After Pain.

Come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We're Afraid.' 'come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We Will Fall!' 'come To The Edge.' And They Came. And He Pushed Them. And They Flew.

A Structure Becomes Architectural, And Not Sculptural, When Its Elements No Longer Have Their Justification In Nature.

I Sing The Joy Of Wandering And The Pleasure Of The Wanderer's Death