In trying to be perfect, He perfected the art of anonymity, Became imperceptible And arrived nowhere from nowhere.

Sound unbound by nature becomes bounded by art.

Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it's a product of an assembly line.

Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.

We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery.

Art is apotheosis; often, the complaint of beauty.