I hate gucci,' said francis. 'do you?' said henry, glancing up from his reverie. 'really? I think it's rather grand.' 'come on, henry.' 'well, it's so expensive, but it's so ugly too, isn't it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.' 'i don't see what you think is grand about that.' 'anything is grand if it's done on a large enough scale,' said henry.
Shakespearean words, foreign words, slang and dialect and made-up phrases from kids on the street corner: english has room for them all. And writers - not just literary writers, but popular writers as well - breathe air into english and keep it lively by making it their own, not by adhering to some style manual that gets handed out to college freshmen in a composition class.
When i looked at the painting i felt the same convergence on a single point: a flickering sun-struck instance that existed now and forever. Only occasionally did i notice the chain on the finch's ankle, or think what a cruel life for a little living creature - fluttering briefly, forced always to land in the same hopeless place.
And as much as id like to believe theres a truth beyond illusion, ive come to believe that theres no truth beyond illusion. Because, between reality on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, theres a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic.