That is something I love more than so much else in this kitschly oafish world. I’d rather have a ripple than a swell — an aroma rather than a smell — an understated presence which unobtrusively waits with calmness to be seen (knowing that it will, by those who are attuned to its gentle shower’s evergreen). A cultivated hybrid rose cannot outdo a wild and meadowed flower. A patient talent doesn’t crassly bang its drum (because it knows what placidness will help it to become). A dynamic whisper rather than a yell (sleeve-tugging propaganda always rings a tawdry bell). The flicker of a smile instead of cheesy grins. The delicate and unposed face which you can wake up next to every day without becoming bored. (Love-letters writ in lowercase will much more likely strike a chord). The quiet confidence of self-composure rather than the swaggered boast of self-exposure. Subtlety: the lost art of today. How much more attractive is nuance rather than noise — Nestor rather than Narcissus! — openness over plots and ploys. Such will be the character of the phoenix world to come, whose strings already here I strum for we can live the future now as the gentle vital avant-garde — no more we’ll have to slip and slide on gore within this bloody abattoir. But what I love above all else about the touch of subtlety is that it makes you look and listen with far more than merely eyes and ears (though first you need to understand your darkness and your fears). It expands the imagination, nurtures sensitivity, encourages creativity, takes away all bitterness as well as helps you love the moon (identifies the secret tune you play). Subtlety is the door to the art gallery of wisdom.