Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.

In life it is more necessary to lose than to gain. A seed will only germinate if it dies.

February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roars Burns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheels To where the ink and all you grieving Are muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurl Dry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With sudden cries the wind is pitted, The more haphazard, the more true The poetry that sobs its heart out.

Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.

No single man makes history. History cannot be seen just as one cannot see grass growing.

Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.

When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.