When Chaos Is The God Of An

Maybe There Are Only Three Kinds Of Stories: Those We Live, Those We Tell, And Those That Help Our Souls Fly Upwards To A Greater Life.

We Can Redream This World And Make The Dream Come Real. Human Beings Are Gods Hidden From Themselves.

We Disliked The Rigours Of Existence, The Unfulfilled Longings, The Enshrined Injustices Of The World, The Labyrinths Of Love, The Ignorance Of Parents, The Fact Of Dying, And The Amazing Indifference Of The Living In The Midst Of The Simple Beauties Of The Universe. We Feared The Heartlessness Of Human Beings, All Of Whom Are Born Blind, Few Of Whom Ever Learn To See.

Wholeness Is The Enemy Of The Artist. We Ought To Be Broken, Ruined In Some Way.

Yes, The Highest Things Are Beyond Words. That Is Probably Why All Art Aspires To The Condition Of Wordlessness. When Literature Works On You, It Does So In Silence, In Your Dreams, In Your Wordless Moments. Good Words Enter You And Become Moods, Become The Quiet Fabric Of Your Being. Like Music, Like Painting, Literature Too Wants To Transcend Its Primary Condition And Become Something Higher. Art Wants To Move Into Silence, Into The Emotional And Spiritual Conditions Of The World. Statues Become Melodies, Melodies Become Yearnings, Yearnings Become Actions.