...the conscious and unconscious as one visible reality: like a palindrome you can't read backwards and forwards at once.

--of time as a fractal: neither continuous nor discontinuous, except as an artifact of scale/sampling-limitation. For if time had quanta, for beings of some degree there would be no change; if time was totally smooth there would be no permanence. Yet, since time is not regularly irregular, within the range of sampling available sometimes to some humans, there is a possible experience of time which seems to move very slow or very fast: these are reaching toward the limits of the species, not the total form of universal time.

Who doesn't prefer poverty is no true anarchist. Like so many others i'm, rather, a chaotic person.

Story is a landscape of feeling. Nothing we have but is story or story's end.

Creating art without human contacts (relationships are its substance, as emotions are its impetus) is like getting pregnant on a starvation diet.

I read about the lives of artists; i say, "my god, it wasn't worth it!" Well, the rest had it just as bad, and what did they leave?

Inspiration gives me the method all at once, and i can work it out at lewisure...with linear thought.

Have i lost my taste for ecstasy, like a painter who gives up Cadmium Yellow--because of the cost?

All an ego can hope for is to decently evaporate.

Insofar as people polarize as extraverts and introverts, they divide their realm into two according to what seems most real to each of them. And speech preserves the moment of that fission, that confusion. (It couldn't get further until introverts began dropping out.)

...("after Babel, no Art" is a truism we'll have to outlive, not outwit)...

Strange how not-knowing-the future can pass for freedom.

Questions. --That is an answering.

'And what if after so many words, the word itself doesn't survive?' --Vallejo (tr Bly)

Tongue-tied, ashamed of my eloquence.

'I can solve differential equations and I can write verses; are these not the extreme limits of human potential?' --Letters of Kleist tr Philip B Miller

...(my solitude fits in my pocket and goes everywhere)...