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The supreme liberty is liberty from the body, the last freedom is freedom from time; the true work of art the one which the seventh wave of genius throws far up the beach where the under-tow of time cannot drag it back. When all the motives that lead artists to create have fallen away, and all the satisfactions of vanity and the play-instinct been exhausted, there remains the desire to construct that which has its own order, as a protest against the chaos to which all else appears condemned. ( While thought exists, words are alive and literature becomes an escape, not from, but into living. )
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c o n n o l l y ,
unquiet grave
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