The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.

If I were in the unenviable position of having to study my work my points of departure would be the "Naught is more real ..." and the "Ubi nihil vales ..." both already in Murphy and neither very rational.

That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?