All art emulates the condition of ritual. That is what it comes from and to that it must always return for nourishment.

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not / You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.

He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.

The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.

Survival is your strength not your shame.

History may be servitude. History may be freedom. See, now they vanish. The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, to become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.