The Pigs Stuck Out Their Little Feet

Why Shouldn't We, So Generally Addicted To The Gigantic, At Last Have Some Small Works Of Art, Some Short Poems, Short Pieces Of Music [...], Some Intimate, Low-voiced, And Delicate Things In Our Mostly Huge And Roaring, Glaring World?

What One Seems To Want In Art, In Experiencing It, Is The Same Thing That Is Necessary For Its Creation, A Self-forgetful, Perfectly Useless Concentration.

Hoping To Live Days Of Greater Happiness, I Forget That Days Of Less Happiness Are Passing By.

Oh, Must We Dream Our Dreams And Have Them, Too?

It Is What We Imagine Knowledge To Be: Dark, Salt, Clear, Moving, Utterly Free, Drawn From The Cold Hard Mouth Of The World, Derived From The Rocky Breasts Forever, Flowing And Drawn, And Since Our Knowledge Is Historical, Flowing, And Flown.