Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. Every child is an artist. the challenge is to remain an artist once he grows up. saturday found him for the first time strolling alone through zurich, breathing in the heady smell of his freedom. new adventures hid around each corner. The future was again a secret.
All art is quite useless. one can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar. words do not express thoughts very well. they always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. he had a word, too. love, he called it. but i had been used to words for a long time. i knew that that word was like the other, just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn’t need a word for that any more than for pride or fear.
Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy. i could lay here and read all night. i am not able to fall asleep without reading. you have that time when your brain has nothing constructive to do so it rambles. i fool my brain out of that by making it read until it shuts off. i just think it’s best to do something right up until you fall asleep. do not the most moving moments of our lives find us all without words? he had a word, too. love, he called it. but i had been used to words for a long time. i knew that that word was like the other.
Imagination is more powerful than knowledge. and may these characters remain / when all is ruin once again we are wise, wise women. we are giggling girls. be still and know that i am god. unless you try to do.