This essay is an examination of the role inspiration has
played in my creative life: it is the testimonial of a poet, a thinker and an
academic. It is a reflection on the ontology of inspiration, revealing
how the natural liability to be inspired is an inherent feature of the
human experience, an indelible aspect of our existence, and a constitutional
element of our being.
Inspiration is
multi-faceted, like a gemstone.
This essay will address four facets of the inspired
state:
1.
The moment of inspiration
2.
The object of inspiration
3.
The content of inspiration
4.
The inspired
expression.
It will treat what it means to be inspired.
Let me say this from the outset:
Because I do not wish to engender the misperception that my creative-life
has been an extended moment of awe, mystery and transcendence (it has not). Because
I do not wish to give that impression, this essay will also present a
discussion of my struggles with the flip-side of inspiration, the pervasive
sense that my creative output is little more than an exercise in vanity,
manifesting itself as a sense of futile self-absorption, a negativism that has
dogged me with a cynical-zeal throughout the whole of my life.
In speaking of my experience, let me also say this:
I have a sharp sense for the inspired moment, at
least I believe I do. I have sense enough to know that inspired moments
come in many ways, they can be charming like the quarks of sub-atomica:
they may be strange and they be fuzzy, they are quirky and unpredictable.
The inspired moment is attractive and alluring.
Inspiration begins
with catalysis.
I cannot list all of the multifarious, multi-valenced
agents that have excited the many different templates at the core of my creative
drive...but, when the elements come together and the proper catalyst is
present, among the disparate experiences of things and beings that constitute
the enduring track of my life, a change takes place. In those moments, when
memory interacts with the immediacy of consciousness, and the whole experience
is informed by the senses…in real-time, it is in that moment of concrescence
that relationships become apparent that had never been discerned before, and
then like alchemy or a flash in the pan!...wham!...there is a new
creation!
When the creative spirit comes, we feel its gravity, like
a singularity forming. We may attenuate ourselves to its frequency, listen and
watch while it warps time and space around it. We may relinquish all resistance
and allow ourselves to be drawn into its mass.
It is in this space with the light of the cosmos bending
around it, that the path toward the realization of our creative ambitions
becomes clear.
It is here where the plan is formed, when the will
becomes fixed on a specific set of steps; it is then that the creative endeavor
begins, the action commences like the choreography of a dance. This is
the inspired state of being, when burgeoning insight is
precipitously balanced with the readiness to act.
These moments come to all of us. We sense them long
before they arrive; it is wise to seize these moments, dwell within them, to linger
in their space for a while.
Understand this!
True inspiration is more than a feeling.
When the inspired moment comes, it comes with
content, it is the spark that becomes a flame, that illuminates and enlightens,
like a flare in the dark whose sudden eruption clarifies the world around us, points
out the way before us...calling us to move toward a specific end.
In that moment when the inspired content springs
to mind, it is like that brief look you are allowed of the image you are trying
to construct from a jig-saw puzzle.
You have a moment with the image, you hold it in your mind...then
you are left with piles of pieces spread out on the table before you, and the task
of putting it all together, with only the memory of that glimpse-of-a-vision to
guide you.
The inspired moment is more than a feeling, it is
more than awe, it is more than a sense of mystery and transcendence; but
feeling is an essential part of it and the inspired feeling is rarely a
tepid one.
Inspiration is light;
yes, but not without heat.
Inspiration is
hot with imperative, with the command to do: to write, to stand, to move, to
sing.
Inspiration is
observable in the germination of a seed, fully formed in its flower and
expressed completely in its fruit.
Inspiration is
a force, it is shocking and dynamic.
Allow me to be literal for a moment, and say this:
Inspiration is
the movement of the spirit within us, enlivening and vivifying our deepest self,
it is as much a part of us as the air we breathe…we live to be inspired.
Inspiration is
as the lexicon says:
“Divine guidance or influence exerted directly on the soul of
humankind."[1]
Therefore, to speak of inspiration in all of its
parts, in all of its facets, is somewhat artificial, perhaps impossible, as if
when speaking of a wave you can name its peak and its trough, without
acknowledging that the two are essentially one—alternating…changing mode of
being.
Be mindful.
The inspired moment must be followed by
a genuine enthusiasm for the work that lies ahead of it…enthusiasm, another
word that connotes the indwelling of the divine and creative spirit within us.[2]
When the inspired moment comes we must make
room in our hearts, allowing it to live within us. We must receive it
enthusiastically,[3]
or it will wither and die.
Inspiration comes
in the form of a personal experience, it comes into the real lives of real
people, like an encounter with the deity, or whatever gods may be. And though inspiration
comes upon us with great power, it is nevertheless subject to the cares and
concerns of the person to whom it is present. Therefore, the inspired
moment must be cared for, like any other thing, added to the list of concerns
that we manage day to day, as human beings.
It is in that place, somewhere between the heart and the
head, a place which in Hebrew is called nephesh, the throat,
but which also means soul and refers to the place where sentience dwells;
it is from there, in the nephesh, that the spirit ruha emanates.
It is then when our breath finds its voice and we speak, that we add our
distinctiveness to the wind.
Consider the
wisdom of Brenda Ueland:
Inspiration does
not (in fact) come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving but it
comes to us slowly and quietly all of the time. But we must regularly and every
day give it a chance to start flowing, and prime it with a little solitude and
idleness. I learned that when writing you should not feel like Lord Byron on a
mountaintop, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten – happy,
absorbed, and quietly putting one bead on after another.[4]
This
may appear to contradict what I said above concerning inspiration; I
assure you that she and I are not speaking to divergent ends.
I
have been reflecting on the power of inspiration, the charged
flash, its force and dynamism. Brenda describes inspiration much
differently.
I
have been talking about the beginning of inspiration, about
the birth of the inspired moment, like the first sharp-sudden
intake of breath. Brenda is talking about what comes next...about the care and
nurture of the inspired vision.
Brenda
is talking about living with inspiration. She is talking about
the inspired life, about the falling rain after the
clouds-burst and the thunder-claps. She is talking about the importance and the
necessity of caring for the gift after its reception.
The inspired moment
may fill us with vision and clarify our purpose, it may do so ecstatically, but
nobody (nobody that I know of) can live in that ecstatic state. The ecstasy
that follows inspiration is electric; there is so much power
in it that if we were to stay in the inspired moment for too
long, it would burn us up…it burns us a little every time, but the attempt to
remain there would burn us to cinders.
Brenda
describes a way of living with inspiration and fulfilling
the inspired vision, by regulating its power through habit and
ritual and disciplined work, "like stringing beads together in
kindergarten," she says; we must allow for some downtime, give our
circuitry a break, gives our selves time to reflect on the vision we had
received, and grasp its meaning after its light…like the sun, has stopped
shining in our eyes.
Having
space, being quiet, experiencing emptiness, these are essential to the
cultivation of inspiration.
Consider
the wisdom of Dorris Lessing:
Have you found that
space, that empty space, which should surround you when you write? Into that
space, which is a form of listening, of attention, will come the words, the
words your characters will speak, ideas—inspiration.[5]
Like
Brenda, Doris is talking about the care for and nurture of inspiration,
which intersects in our life through the care for and nurture of the
creative-will that resides within us. We nurture the creative-will by
exercising it, we exercise it through the expression of the inspired moment
and the cultivation of its content.
When
seeking inspiration, it is important to be mindful that inspiration
has its phases, like the moon, it waxes and wanes, and from time to time is
nowhere to be found.
Nobel Laureate, Doris Lessing makes a vital
point when she addresses the need to listen, to listen to one’s self.
I have found it far too easy to listen to the inner critic; that
insipid, clamoring voice knows exactly how to get our attention How much more
important and life-sustaining is it to listen to our creative voice, to hearken
to it music, to care for it like the gardener cares for the tender shoot poking
up from the soil before unfurling its fronds.
In order for art to find its expression
we must give our creative voice the attention it deserves. We must turn to it
rather than to the noisome din of the inner critic, listen pealing, whether it
is faint or loud let it be clear.
Brenda Ueland says:
I want to write about the great and
powerful thing that listening is, and how we forget it. And how we don’t
listen…to those we love. And least of all, to those we don’t love. Because
listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force.
When we are listened to, it creates us,
makes us unfold and expand. Ideas actually begin to grow within us and come to
life…It makes people happy and free when they are listened to.
When we listen to people there is an
alternating current, and this recharges us so that we never get tired of each
other. Now this little creative fountain is in all. It is the spirit, or the
intelligence, or the imagination—whatever you want to call it. If you are
tired, strained, have no solitude, run too many errands, talk to too many
people, drink too many cocktails, this little fountain is muddied over and
covered with a lot of debris. The result is that you stop living from the
center…it is when people really listen to us, with quiet fascinated attention,
that the little fountain begins to work again, to accelerate in the most
surprising ways.[6]
Consider these words about listening,
about how we feel when we are listened to and relate them to your creativity.
If we can slow down enough to be
fascinated with our own ideas, if we can be attentive to our own needs, then we
will have found the time to express our creative voice.
If we listen to the stirring of the
heart, its murmur will grow into a song; it will become a chorus and a symphony
will follow. That force will expand and unfold within us, encompassing our
heights and our depths, extending itself throughout our lives, conjoining the
natural progression of our peaks and troughs, making them into a singular-unbroken-sequence
of waves.
What
we have discussed to this point, in this reflection on inspiration, is
how to cope with the garden in bloom, how to manage its fecundity, its
fruit and its flower.
The
garden is the place we love to be when everything is growing-well and going-right.
But there are many times in our lives, countless times to be sure, when inspiration strikes and is not received,
received and not acted on, or even when acted upon is left unfulfilled.
There
are many forces; both within us and without, that are opposed to the power of inspiration. These are the powers of the
menial and mundane, the day-to-day duties that obscure our vision, the doubts
that disrupt the muse. We sense their power like cold fingers of fear clutching
at the heart, tearing at the will, the hard hand that stills inspiration’s
voice…like a thunderclap.
The
death of inspiration comes through the
inner critic, the one who tells us that our work is futile[7], frivolous, and useless,
who spreads the debris and clutter to cover the bright and bubbling fountain
within us.
Remember,
the spirit blows where it wills it reaches everyone…the muses[8] sing to us all.
Whether
we think of the force of inspiration as
divine, as a gift that comes from without, or as an innate power-inherent to
our being, or as our “true self” speaking to us; when the moment comes we must,
fit it into our busy lives, or forget about it and let it fade away.
Brenda
Ueland says[9]
that “the true self is really the Conscience (or God)” not speaking to us about
“morality or convention” but daring us to explore the “truth (in ourselves)
toward bravery and the greater life.”
When
you find that truth, she says, your true self, “and see how gifted you are, you
can write as slowly as you want to.” You can let the world be the world, and
not let it set you off the course of fulfilling your vision.
The
wheel of life will turn, our inspiration
will rise with it, if we allow it; we will rise with the turning of the wheel
and jump-off it at the apex of the curve, we can lift ourselves to freedom…or,
we cling to the wheel as the moment passes, turns around and go down with, pushed
into the cold-dark current of futility.
Let
me say this…I have been inspired.
I
have felt the spirit of inspiration
moving within me.
I
have been overcome by the hot-flash of a great idea generating within me the
deep-desire to act.
I
have heard inspiration’s voice speaking slowly, soft and steady. At
other times I have heard it fast-talking, loud and demanding.
I
have not always listened, but then again, I have not always known how.
The
moment of inspiration can be
startling.
As
awesome as inspiration can be, it is
not always delivered by the sublime, the divine and the lovely.
Truth,
beauty and goodness are not the only things that catch my attention or make me
want to do something. Sometimes I am moved by what is altogether mundane, human
and vicious. Sometimes the spark that lights the fire is the experience evil,
ugliness and lies. Sometimes I am moved not to stand up, but to take a stand,
not to move, but to be unmoving.
When
inspiration comes, the heart and the
mind must be open. Inspiration to the voice from within and the experience
from without, we may be
triggered by something we witness, such as the splendor of nature, a grand vista
or a shocking event.
Inspiration may come from something
small and simple, from a conversation or a question. The moment may come and go
in an instant, leaving it to the mediation of our genius or the daemon within
us,[10] to make sense of its
significance.
There
is an encounter that repeats itself in my consciousness, the encounter between
my the spirit of inspiration and my
sense of futility, by which I mean my doubts about the purpose I feel myself directed
toward. This encounter manifests itself as a dialog between my creative self
and my inner critic.
For
instance, I have been and I am inspired to share with Christians in particular,
though with everyone in general, the gospel of Jesus as I understand it,
specifically: the good-news to be found in the hope for universal salvation.
My
first understanding of this doctrine came out of my own active imagination, a
discourse with my daemon, if you
will. It came by thinking logically about some of the most basic claims that
Christians make about God: 1. that God is love (agape), which means that God is
loving; 2. that God is all-powerful (omnipotent), which means that God has the
perfect ability to accomplish God’s will; 3. that God is all-knowing
(omniscient), which means that God knows us, that God understands us even as we
know and understand ourselves; 4. that God is with us (omnipresent), which
means that God is not, not-present in any space, that God is with us and wants
us to be at-one with the divine from here to eternity.
These
claims, which virtually all Christians hold as true, led me to the conclusion
that there are no meaningful barriers to God having God’s way in the matter of
our salvation.,,even with respect to our free-will.
We
must per-force-of-logic hold, that if God truly wills the salvation of all
people, which Christian doctrine claims God does, then ipso facto all
people will be saved.
My
understanding of this argument and its necessary conclusion came to me at the
age of fifteen. It came in a flash; it came in a moment of inspiration that
was both intuitive and revelatory.
In
the ten years that followed I did not do much with this idea, except to use it
in the occasional argument I might have with a fundamentalist Christian out
preaching on a street corner…which I enjoyed, but ultimately found to be
unsatisfying.
In
that period there were moments when I was in a debate with another Christian
that I would recapture that feeling of inspiration,
but not every argument I pursued produced that electrifying sense of purpose
that filled me with joy. When I would argue the doctrine with people who could
grasp the logic, that feeling of inspiration
would ignite inside of me. I would want to linger in the conversation and
explore all of its implications, both in terms of human destiny, as well as for
the future of Christianity.
However,
when my interlocutors could not grasp the logic, I often felt like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing that boulder
up-hill. The same words and concepts that might delight me on one occasion,
would on another occasion would be a drone in my ears.
Or,
even worse for me were the occasions when I found myself talking and talking
all night long, enjoying the sound of my voice, exalting in the feelings I got
from my partner in dialog, or whoever else might be listening, but walking away
at the end of it thinking that I had accomplished nothing more than a stroking
of my ego, and feel the shame of self-aggrandizement.
At
the age of twenty-five I had begun to organize a research paper for my
undergraduate major in theology; I wanted to write about this doctrine, which
was still inspiring me. Only now, I had found the motivation to do something
with it, to research, to write, to demonstrate the validity of my claims in a
formal way.
I
was moving beyond the arm-chair and outside of the coffee house, I was getting
off the soap box and though I was merely an undergraduate, I felt that I was
doing real work in theology.
There
was something else happening; I was learning…a lot.
I
was encountering more people, specifically, more educated people who were
willing to argue with me, people who
could hold up their end much better than the street corner variety of
born-again-Christian.
Finally,
I was beginning to get a clear sense of theological history and its weight, of
the philosophy of Christianity, its institutions, its liturgy as the power
behind the traditional Christian doctrine of selective salvation, and so many
other exclusionary principles I found arrayed against my simple logic.
It
felt like that lil old ant, who thinks he can move a rubber tree plant. I
had high hopes, and those hopes along with the inspired purpose that fueled
them, were constantly being assailed by a deepening sense of futility in regard
to my purpose or the likelihood of success in my mission.
The
question my inner critic asked me was this:
Was it possible
for me to give a crystal-clear expression of the inherent logic at work in
Christian doctrine that confirms the doctrine of universal salvation, and simply
by doing that would I be able to change two thousand years of history and
practice regarding the pervasive belief in hell and the theology of damnation?
Being
honest with myself I had to say that it was possible, (I guess) yes, but likely…no.
The
creative spirit within me, my genius, was
good at getting the last word, “keep working” it would say, “keep producing,
keep arguing…tend to the inspiration, be mindful of it, blowing on the ember
to rekindle the flame, keep on keeping on.”
I
wrote my senior paper, for my theology major, on the topic of universal
salvation; then I doubled down and wrote my senior paper for my philosophy
major on the same subject, broadening my research as I went.
By
the time I was done I learned that the twentieth century had given the world
many extremely capable philosophers and theologians who had been writing about
this topic already; they were Oxford Dons, University of Chicago Doctors, and alumni
of one storied institution or another.
Their
work inspired me to lend my voice to theirs, to carry on the good work,
fight the good fight; however…the deeper I dug into the field, the more often I
was faced with questions like this:
What is the point?
Why do I care?
If everyone is saved no matter what, why spend
time and energy trying to convince people who do not believe, and do not want
to believe, that it is true?
If in the end, it does not matter what a
person believes or what church they belong to, why even bother with my
examination of Christian doctrine?
This
was my inner critic seeking to undermine me, attempting to convince me that my work
was an exercise in futility, that my pursuit of the question that had inspired
me so many years before was meaningless, that I should give up,
When
I discovered that I was not the first person to be moved by this question, and
not the first to resolve, I realized that I would not be the last person to
struggle with it either.
I
came to understand that there was little I could do to change the minds of the
billions of Christians, Muslims, Jews and others who think and feel differently
about our shared spiritual destiny. I found that most mono-theists, whose
tradition imagines some form of hell, do not believe that God condemns people
to eternal punishment because logic tells them so…they believe it because they
want to believe it, because it makes them feel good.
In
learning that, I learned how logic by itself will not free people from erroneous
beliefs.
My
education was doing three things for me:
1. It
was arming me with more evidence, more arguments, more historical knowledge.
2. It
was preparing me with expanded powers to synthesize and communicate those
ideas.
3. At
the same time, it was informing me that no matter how great my dialectical
powers might become, I would have little power to persuade the hearts and minds
of the unwilling.
As
for the willing…well, they were with me already, and I have never been
motivated by the prospect of preaching to the choir.
Pursuing
this argument, both formally and institutionally had brought me to the nexus
where my inspiration and my sense of
futility met, it was where my genius
and my inner critic hung out inside my head; I was aware of the danger such an
encounter represents, not just for me, but for everyone.
I
became mindful of this reality:
If
I wanted to be true to the movement of the spirit stirring in my heart, I must
have the patience to stay with it for a very long time, to quietly listen to
its music, to hear in its voice the bubbling of a spring.
I
have spoken of inspiration as if it
came like a flash, like a flare burning or a fire within us, but inspiration is
more than that.
Inspiration is more than a vision that
brings a small bit of joy, it is more than a quick illumination that brings a
fragment of understanding. If inspiration were only that, I would liken the
vision to a mirage, its illumination burning as quickly as lime, and the
understanding it imparts as superficial as dew in the desert at dawn.
Inspiration, when true, is received as a
call to action.
Sometimes
what the inspired moment calls us to do can be done quickly.
Other
inspired moments call us to rearrange our lives so that we may engage it
completely.
Be
mindful.
The
greater the commitment we are called to make in order to fulfill the inspired
purpose, the greater the temptation will be to yield to the inner critic, allowing
the inspired moment to fade away by succumbing to the drag of futility.
We
cannot escape the voices within us that would have us label our ambitions as exercises
in futility. Both the human-will and our treasured imaginings are subject to
the entropic principle.
Our
inner critic will assert itself for as long as we draw breath, its voice is our
voice and it will never relent; therefore we must be in dialogue with it…and
here is the thing, if you are dealing honestly with its power, if you grapple
with it, you will find renewed inspiration in the struggle.
When
I was working out my master’s thesis, and in the years since, I discovered
that, none of my good ideas about universal
salvation were new...not a single one. Thankfully, I made my discovery early
in my research, finding that many philosophers and theologians, both
contemporary and classical, had written about the ideas that moved me.
I
discovered that in every generation of the Christian Church, since the death of
Jesus, in every there were philosophers and theologians, and there were ordinary
people teaching and speaking to the same beliefs.
Each
new voice I found filled me with a kind of joy. I found comfort in their words
as I came to understand my own faith in grace and providence, as an echo of
theirs moving forward in time.
They
were my sisters and brothers, we were sharing the same in sharing the good news:
Believe, not so that you may be saved, rather
believe that you are saved already…rejoice!
Even
though I found joy and camaraderie in these things, slowly and inexorably the
weariness would set in, a weariness marked by a resignation that came from the
understanding that all of these good people, all of these good thinkers, were
like myself…exiles in the Church. We were just a tiny minority within the
bigger Christian movement, like a few drops of water set apart from the ocean.
With the weariness came the
temptation to yield to that sense of futility, and there is nothing wrong with
that.
If
we are like the farmer, who when the harvest is done, reserves some grain for
the next planting, then the rest we take will prepare the field for inspiration to blossom again.
The
relationship between the spirit of inspiration and powers of futility,
given voice by your inner critic works best when it is like a buddy movie,
where the two characters do not really get along, like the The Odd Couple, like Felix and Oscar, who are always on each
other’s nerves while remaining the best of friends.
At
first blush, futility and inspiration
seem like they are diametrically opposed, one voice is calling you to action,
the other is demanding that you sit down. Each would like to eliminate the
other, but they are both a part of what makes us human and the interplay
between them should not be conceived as a zero-sum game.
Futility,
like drag, will slow us down. Slowing down, even stopping is not always bad; any
rest we take may give us the time and space to think through or rethink our
approach to the path before us, or the task at hand. Sometimes it is necessary to
stop and listen if we are to acquire insight into how we might move ahead with
better footing.
Just
because our inner critic is a critic does not mean that she or he is wrong.
Remember
the wisdom of Brenda Ueland:
The creative power is
in all of you (us) if you just give it a little time, if you believe in it and
watch it come quietly into you; if you do not keep it out by always hurrying
and feeling guilty during those times when you should be lazy and happy. Or if
you do not keep the creative power away by telling yourself the worst of
lies—that you don’t have any.[11]
Inspiration, when it is true, and we are
true to it, will assert itself continuously through our imagination, the spirit
of inspiration will demand its place, find its voice, sometimes
startlingly, sometimes quietly.
The
spirit of inspiration speaks with your voice, as it speaks to me in mine.
It
will lead us out of the swamp, transforming the morass into a verdant wetland, it
will cultivate a garden in the light of our best self-expression, we will
experience that as fulfillment and its radiance as joy.
[1]
The American Heritage Dictionary,
Fourth Edition, Inspiration, “1. Stimulation of the mind or the emotions
to high level of feeling or activity. 5…Divine guidance or influence exerted
directly on the soul of humankind.”
[2]
Rollo May, The Courage to Create, p.
103 “Apollo spoke in the first person through Pythia…the god was said to enter
her at the very moment of her seizure, or enthusiasm,
as the root of that term en-theo
(‘in-god’), literally suggests.” W. W. Norton Company, New York, 1975.
[3]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A
Book about Art, Independence and Spirit: pp. 149-150. “Blake of course
thought the imagination and inspiration (which we all have, as I have said)
came from God and through God’s messengers; psychologists tell us it is rooted
in the unconscious. But one explanation is as good another. I prefer Blake’s
better because it is much easier to understand and more plausible…and remember
the word enthusiasm means divine inspiration.” BN publishing, 2008
[4]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit:
p. 47, BN publishing, 2008
[5]
Doris Lessing, Acceptance Speech, Nobel Prize for Literature, 2007.
[6]
Brenda Ueland, Tell Me More, Strength
to Your Sword Arm, pp. 205-210, Holy Cow! Press, Duluth 1984.
[7]
The American Heritage Dictionary,
Fourth Edition, Futile, “1. Having no useful result. 2. Trifling, and
frivolous; idle.”
[8]
The American Heritage Dictionary,
Fourth Edition, Muse, “1. Greek
Mythology Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus, each of whom
resided over a different art or science. 2. A guiding spirit.”
[9]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A
Book about Art, Independence and Spirit: p. 121, BN publishing, 2008
[10]
Both the Greeks and the Romans (as well as other ancient civilizations) had a
highly developed notion of the duality of human nature. They each believed that
our physical selves were accompanied by a spiritual being, coexisting with us
on another plane of reality. The Romans called this spiritual counterpart our genius, and the Greeks called it the daemon; from these we get our terms
“genius” and “demon.” A preference for Roman culture gave their word a positive
connotation, and a pejorative connotation to the Greek cognate. Classical
culture not only saw this aspect of ourselves as the point of contact between
us and the divine realms, but the Roman word for this also means “begetter.” It
is more than the aspect of ourselves that communicates inspiration, it is fundamentally the aspect of ourselves that
oversees the production or the carrying our of what we have been inspired to
do.
Barry B. Powell, Classical
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