diary / by Edward Mullany


There is, of course, such a thing as a muse, but it does not come to you, as I think many people suppose, or have been led to imagine, but rather you go to it, where it always is, not in a place, or a location, but in a realm that is interior to yourself, and that can be accessed wherever you happen to be, whenever you are ready, provided you have some quietude and calm, and perhaps a gentleness of spirit, which is not to say a timidness, or a love for the sentimental, though this muse does not give you anything except the very feeling of which it is made, and which is never exhausted, but which you must transform, by way of your talent, and the medium in which you practice, into an expression that could be no one’s but yours.