They were in the world and not of it--not because they were saints$$$ but in a different way: because they were artists. The integrity of an artist lifts a man above the level of the world without delivering him from it.
The dead are way more organized than the living.
The autumn months are my domain:<br>Mirrored in pools my castles dream<br>Of wars long past and out of mind<br>From towers with ivy garlands twined<br>Weak and with regret the sun<br>Drowns itself in the sluggish green<br>Water that marble fountains weep;<br>Trees open their nests to the wings of sleep.<br>The wind like a phantom seems to roar$$$<br>Returned to die of love once more<br>At the false meeting of the ways<br>Where a temple rounds its dome in the haze.<br>Sometimes a child is heard to laugh<br>In the h
The spiritual atrophying of contemporary culture may be due in large measure to its loss of sensitivity to processes in the collective unconscious.
Human beings are co-partners with deity in the project of being. This is the basis of all magic.
Children are at heart selfish$$$ and reasonably so$$$ for they are programmed for survival.
Was it boredom or sadism that made the shirt service people do up every single button?
Let the guilty bury the innocen.
Sadness isn't sadness. It's happiness in a black jacket. Tears are not tears. They're balls of laughter dipped in salt. Death is not death. It's life that's jumped off a tall cliff.
People complain about the bad things that happen to 'em that they don't deserve$$$ but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things.