The world and everything in it is beautiful.

I love my title: it's exactly the sort of thing that everyone should know, and remember. What I don't like is how people define art. They say that art is something that delights or something that teaches, or something that does this or that; they say what it does, but not what it is. Art is expression, plain and simple. It is people doing things to get what is inside of them, outside. Oh, David, but you must be more specific, you will say. No; that's another thing I don't like about definitions of art and critical approaches—they are the same old joke in a new language: mankind trying to pound the round peg (the mystery and wonder of his existence) into the square hole (his understanding and logic). He always uses a hammer made out of specifics and absolutes. No, I believe that art is expression. But, David, what does that mean?

It means that a simple, pedantic phrase like “I love you” is art. No? Does it move my affections? Does it make me feel good or bad? Does it alter my perspective and mind? What does art do?

It means that the bark of a dog is art. No? Is a sunset not divine art? Mountains rising from the fog? Does man have a monopoly on art?

It means that the commercial jingle I wrote for money is art. No? Did none of my genius, my self, my existence enter into it? Can you say for sure; can I say for sure? Was I not genuine in my desire for money? Is this not greed, primal and selfish worthy to be expressed? Does art only express the noble and good? Is art only itself, and not the context it was sired in?

It means that the soft fantasy fiction, dime-a-dozen, is art. No? Was I not sincere about it? Does it not mean something to me? Does art mean something to everyone, even to all but a few, even to just me? Does this make it art?

I believe that there is a simple beauty in our own existence that we choose not to be aware of. I believe that things created by the infinite cannot be defined finitely. I believe that art is expression, and expression is art, and that that which we call and mean by “art” is merely general area of the spectrum of expression. Its boundaries are blurred, and if you look at them closely enough, they are made of countless, diverse dots that represent you and me and the human race, and these dots form the nebulous "What is remembered" and "What is great." Art is great, true, especially what we call and mean by "art;" but it is simply the more interesting portions of a beautiful, eternal dialogue between the universe and itself. (David Reher)