A life lived in chaos is an impossibility for the artist. No matter how unstructured may seem the painter's garret in Paris or the poet's pad in Greenwich Village, the artist must have some kind of order or he will proudce a very small body of work. To create a work of art, great or small, is work, hard work, and work requires discipline and order.

It does not matter that we cannot fathom this mystery. The only real problem comes when we think that we have.

Love. That was what she had that IT did not have.

A self is not something static, tied up in a pretty parcel and handed to the child, finished and complete. A self is always becoming.

It might be a good idea if, like the White Queen, we practiced believing six impossible things every morning before breakfast, for we are called on to believe what to many people is impossible. Instead of rejoicing in this glorious "impossible" which gives meaning and dignity to our lives, we try to domesticate God, to make his might actions comprehensible to our finite minds.

To be born is to start the journey towards death.

Humility is throwing oneself away in complete concentration on something or someone else.