Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark.
Aesop, that master storyteller of old, told this fable: A jar of honey was upset in a housekeeper's room, and a number of flies were attracted by its sweetness. Placing their feet in it, the flies ate greedily. Their feet, however, became so smeared with honey that they could not use their wings, nor release themselves, and they were suffocated. Just as they were dying, they exclaimed: "Oh, foolish creatures that we are, for the sake of a little pleasure we have destroyed ourselves."
Of all the gods, Death only craves not gifts: Nor sacrifice, nor yet drink-offering poured Avails; no altars hath he, nor is soothed By hymns of praise. From him alone of all The powers of heaven Persuasion holds aloof.