No more for us the little sighing,
No more the winds at twilight trouble us.
Lo the fair dead!
“Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one’s own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book.”
Rebecca West | Black Lamb and Grey Falcon