I love art. For it explains all that cannot be described.
If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it walls, and we will furnish it with soft, red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweller’s felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn’t exist, and I have tried everything that does.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated
For some time you could not figure what role it was that best fitted to your Nature and ability, or even if it were a disservice identifying with but one ideal at all; but here, the Artist translates, the Philosopher must know, and you have not the patience for these, but the sinews and energy for rigorous offensive. For still must somebody act, and so should you take up that honour, while there is still time and much to be done.
At times, by a precise and perfect Aurora coaxing my artistry needs that won, comprises the sweeter aspects of any day. But for some crack in the spell by untimely distract, escapes thus my Nymph to the woods where can no hope from dispersion be rescued.
Upon waking, recover a quiet place to the skies exhibit, and hold there a harmony of clear and untainted perception. Consider the airs fond occupants; silent clouds that, straying one reach to the other, renew themselves in hopes your notice to keep; the bashful sun, by your own radiance reduced, steals away with its shame to the cotton shroud and looks with sad revere. How all of nature so cherishes you.