Man Is Not What He

Christ...an Anarchist Who Succeeded. That's All.

The Great Christian Art Did Not Die Because All Possible Forms Had Been Used Up; It Died Because Faith Was Being Transformed Into Piety. Now, The Same Conquest Of The Outside World That Brought In Our Modern Individualism, So Different From That Of The Renaissance, Is By Way Of Relativizing The Individual. It Is Plain To See That Man's Faculty Of Transformation, Which Began By A Remaking Of The Natural World, Has Ended By Calling Man Himself Into Question.

Nothing Is Harder Than To Get People To Think About What They Are Going To Do.

The Great Mystery Is Not That We Should Have Been Thrown Down Here At Random Between The Profusion Of Matter And That Of The Stars; It Is That From Our Very Prison We Should Draw, From Our Own Selves, Images Powerful Enough To Deny Our Own Nothingness.

Every Young Man's Heart Is A Graveyard In Which Are Inscribed The Names Of A Thousand Dead Artists But Whose Only Actual Denizens Are A Few Mighty, Often Antagonistic, Ghosts.