Despair, in short, seeks its own environment as surely as water finds its own level.
When there is no peril in the fight, there is no glory in the triumph.
No one is promiscuous in his way of dying. A man who has decided to hang himself will never jump in front of a train.
Twentieth-century art may start with nothing, but it flourishes by virtue of its belief in itself, in the possibility of control over what seems essentially uncontrollable, in the coherence of the inchoate, and in its ability to create its own values.