The Art Of Mastering Life Is The

Nothing Can Be Rushed. It Must Grow, It Should Grow Of Itself, And If The Time Ever Comes For That Work, Then So Much The Better!

My Self . . . Is A Dramatic Ensemble. Here A Prophetic Ancestor Makes His Appearance. Here A Brutal Hero Shouts. Here An Alcoholic Bon Vivant Argues With A Learned Professor. Here A Lyric Muse, Chronically Love-struck, Raises Her Eyes To Heaven. Her Papa Steps Forward, Uttering Pedantic Protests. Here The Indulgent Uncle Intercedes. Here The Aunt Babbles Gossip. Here The Maid Giggles Lasciviously. And I Look Upon It All With Amazement, The Sharpened Pen In My Left Hand.

Each Energy Calls For Its Complementary Energy To Achieve Self-contained Stability Based On The Play Of Energies.

What My Art Probably Lacks Is A Kind Of Passionate Humanity... There Is No Sensuous Relationship, Not Even The Noblest, Between Myself And The Many.

All Is Well With Me. The Rain Doesn't Reach Me, My Room Is Well Heated, What More Can One Ask For? There's No Shortage Of Work, Either.