Parks are idealizations of nature, but nature in fact is not a condition of the ideal.

The scenic ideals that surround even our national parks are carriers of a nostalgia for heavenly bliss and eternal calmness.

Banal words function as a feeble phenomena that fall into their own mental bogs of meaning.

One's mind and the earth are in a constant state of erosion, mental rivers wear away abstract banks, brain waves undermine cliffs of thought, ideas decompose into stones of unknowing, and conceptual crystallizations break apart into deposits of gritty reason.

Questions about form seem as hopelessly inadequate as questions about content.

History is a facsimile of events held together by finally biographical information.

Artists themselves are not confined, but their output is.