The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

Art bids us touch and taste and hear and see the world, and shrinks from what Blake calls mathematic form, from every abstract form, from all that is of the brain only.

When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.

Style, personality - deliberately adopted and therefore a mask - is the only escape from the hot-faced bargainers and money-changers.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.