What is it about us that goes on living though we be deprived of so many needs and vital parts, why are we so stubborn not to die though we are nothing but a stump? Humans live without freedom, without thought, without love life-long. As if we had never had them, and had not been sundered. Sheer breathing seems all any of us ask (and the imposed greeds).
  Then one day a human sees the lack and it is so obvious, but this difference makes him feel strange and the one who is wrong. And without memory or language or records, without a tradition that has been shaped by all the other strange ones--he would be wrong. Wrong to want to be human when there is not yet a context for it. Culture makes all the difference.
  But if culture should die--would he be wrong, that next one of unaccountable longings?

Man crept two inches of logic's worth and cried "Oh, my head! I have thunk too much! I have fallen thru a trapdoor into the forebrain! lost touch with my viscereal feeling-reality! Help! I must go back!"
   But there was no going back.

Even our intellectuals are anti-intellectual.

Faith in process: to believe that any promulgation is progress, even if it's unrecognizable distortion among imbeciles.
  All you have to do is understand perfection is possible, to immediately despise the idea of a popular art. But this attitude is unusable. It only makes it harder to be an artist. (Maybe it should.)