Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

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

That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

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.

No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.

The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.

An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.