I want my words to be cold, icy clear, and hard as diamond, not melting all over the place like a pile of slops. I have been laden with responsibility, you see. Whatever I say must love truth – not just tolerate or include or concede truth, but reach at it like a drowning man reaches for a life preserver.
Precision is the imperative.
I think I had been writing falsely for a long time, because a few weeks ago, when I rediscovered a sliver of truth in a slipstream thought, God blessed me, and I was struck, my eyes were dazzled with freshness, my heart seemed to have been unlocked, and light poured into the room. I refuse to continue my scribbles in the grimy alley that I used to call Art.
Art involves truth, not undisciplined imagination and ridiculous morbidity.
Art involves a rare talent for seeing things clearly and being able to express them clearly. Paintings must be uncorrupted, unencrypted files.
Sophistry is eventually insufficient – when the flames of time sweep the floors, I want my words to be founded in the Rock.