Nothing is so simple, so explainable, so logical and un-mysterious as a thing dead. The moment you deal with a thing alive you deal with mystery. True unity is a trinity and defies analysis when analysis alone is brought to bear upon it.
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Great art, major art, is dependent upon wind. Granted authentic lyricism in two men in any art, the major poet differs from the minor in wind only. Call it endurance, perseverance, sustainment or what you will; I prefer wind.
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The artist is particularly unfit for life— too sensitive. Life’s lack of unity is heartbreaking to the artist. The artist is prone to yield to temptation to attempt to reform life instead of fleeing as he should to the imaginative life (art). As a reformer he is denying his gift of the gods and lowering himself.
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I shall attempt to write some brief suggestions of my main beliefs in art. If they seem vague, I can plead that the artist is filled with the desire to express through vision alone.
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The artist has always been prophetic. The more naturalistic outlook of Masaccio, Cimabue, and Giotto presaged the humanism to come in the West: the painters had abandoned the rigidities of Byzantium long before the mass of mankind had accepted the comparative freedom of the Renaissance.
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The breakdown here in America is not due to a negative evil like sin, but to avoidance alike of all negative and positive things like the virtues and vices in the hope that by postponing both heaven and hell long enough a Utopia of science may be discovered
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Have you ever noticed how many essays begin with a beautiful ritual? I mean with a nice rhythm and choice of words—but with no content. I do not criticize this. I applaud it as something quite fitting.
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