Art is a mystery.

A mystery is something immeasurable.

In so far as every child and woman and man may be a immeasurable,

art is the mystery of every man and woman and child.

In so far as a human being is an artist,

skies, and mountains, oceans and thunderbolts and butterflies

are immeasurable,

and art is every mystery of nature.

Nothing measurable can be alive;

nothing which is not alive can be art;

nothing cannot be art is true;

and everything untrue doesn't matter.

Every artist's strictly illimitable country is himself.

An artist who plays that country false has committed suicide.

But a human being who's true to himself - whoever himself may be -

is immortal,

and all the bombs of all the antiartists in spacetime

will never overcome immortality.

All over this socalled world,

hundreds of millions of servile inhuman unbeings are busy,

rolling in the enlightenment of propaganda.

But there are still a few erect human beings in this socalled world.

Proudly and humbly, I say to these human beings:

O my fellow citizens,

many an honest man believes a lie.

Though you are as honest as the day, fear and hate the liar.

Fear and hate him when he should be feared and hated: now.

Hate and fear him where he should be feared and hated: in yourselves.

Do not fear and hate the artist in yourself.

Honour and love him.  Love him truly - do not try to possess him.

Trust him, for only the artist in yourselves is more truthful than the night.

e.e. cummings