The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.

We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

That penny farthing hell you call your mind

Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.

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

The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.

You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.