Writing, At Least A Craft

A Student Under My Care Owes His First Allegiance To Himself And Not To My Specialty; And Must Not Be Burdened With My Work As If He Followed No Other And Had Contracted No Obligation Under Heaven But That Of Satisfying My Requirements.

If It Were Possible To Talk To The Unborn, One Could Never Explain To Them How It Feels To Be Alive, For Life Is Washed In The Speechless Real.

Music, Not Being Made Up Of Objects Nor Referring To Objects, Is Intangible And Ineffable; It Can Only Be As It Were Inhaled By The Spirit: The Rest Is Silence.

Teaching Is Not A Lost Art, But The Regard For It Is A Lost Tradition.

Finding Oneself Was A Misnomer; A Self Is Not Found But Made.