“It is only in the world of objects that we have time and space and selves.”
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The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.
For love would be love of the wrong thing there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
Art never improves, but... the material of art is never quite the same.
