The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
God spoke to you by so many voices but you would not hear.
A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
Mistakes are the portals of discovery.
