The artist may spend his whole life banging away with hammers and chisels on stones and rocks to achieve fame and fortune and/or make his personal statement about something or other which troubles his mind or which delights him or at least pleases his sense organs, normally his eyes. Or he may not. He may end his life in a garrett with the barrel of a pistol inserted between his lips. Either way, it's not the recommended way to spend a life. And the risk of lung disease from the dust particles inhaled over many years is enormous. But they go on. And meanwhile Nature the sculptor goes on too. Creations made by wind, sun and rain are everywhere to be seen. The human sculptor cannot hope to match or exceed them and yet he always goes on. A force drives him. He knows not from where it comes. He only knows that he must and will, whatever the physical cost to his health and sanity, obey. And so it is also with poets, painters, composers and all the other disciplines of art. Governments and regimes come and go. They rise and fall. They dictate and un-dictate. The true artists go on and on and on . . . as they must. And as they always will.