“Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who should be continually reborn, a human being; somebody who said to those near him, when his fingers would not hold a brush ‘tie it to my hand…’ nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false, nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary, nothing emptied or filled, real or unreal; nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening, innocent spontaneous, true. Nowhere possible what flesh and impossibly such a garden, but actually flowers which breasts are among the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted; brain over heart, surface: nowhere hating or to fear; shadow mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making; only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening; only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno, impotent non games of wrongright and yes rightwrong; never to gain or prove, never the soft adventure of undoom, greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence; never to rest and never to have: only to grow.
Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.” Journal Entry, February 26, 1973
e. e. cummings