Until I Have Been Able To Bury

Art Is Not Cozy And It Is Not Mocked. Art Tells The Only Truth That Ultimately Matters. It Is The Light By Which Human Things Can Be Mended. And After Art There Is, Let Me Assure You All, Nothing.

Almost Any Tale Of Our Doings Is Comic. We Are Bottomlessly Comic To Each Other. Even The Most Adored And Beloved Person Is Comic To His Lover. The Novel Is A Comic Form. Language Is A Comic Form, And Makes Jokes In Its Sleep. God, If He Existed, Would Laugh At His Creation. Yet It Is Also The Case That Life Is Horrible, Without Metaphysical Sense, Wrecked By Chance, Pain And The Close Prospect Of Death. Out Of This Is Born Irony, Our Dangerous And Necessary Tool.

What Makes You Imagine ... That Anything Of Importance Can Be Taught In A School?

Love Can't Always Do Work. Sometimes It Just Has To Look Into The Darkness.

Every Human Soul Has Seen, Perhaps Before Their Birth, Pure Forms Such As Justice, Temperance, Beauty And All The Great Moral Qualities Which We Hold In Honour. We Are Moved Towards What Is Good By The Faint Memory Of These Forms, Simple And Calm And Blessed, Which We Saw Once In A Pure, Clear Light, Being Pure Ourselves.