Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers. - Wallace Stevens

The monastic man is an artist.The philosopher Appoints man’s place in music, say, today. But the priest desires. The philosopher desires. And not to have is the beginning of desire. To have what is not is its ancient cycle.

It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.

The clouds preceded us. There was a muddy centre before we breathed. There was a myth before the myth began, Venerable and articulate and complete. From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.