An Occasion (n.) produces nothing — it is a middleman, a broker, only helpful in the turnover, bringing out what already existed as possibility; the prohibition tempts precisely because it wishes to restrain evil.
An Occasion (n.) is always accidental, and here is the great paradox: the accidental is every bit as absolutely necessary as the necessary.
An Occasion (n.) is the nothing from which everything comes: not positively productive but negatively — with it nothing new arrives, but everything comes forward.
An Occasion (n.) is the delicate, almost invisible web in which the fruit hangs.
An Occasion (n.) is the nimble little person who always accompanies the great — one you wouldn't tip your hat to, sitting silent with a roguish smile, knowing how indispensable he is.
An Occasion (n.) set on the throne makes a poor showing in purple — it was not born to rule; crown it, and God becomes superfluous and existence a charade.
An Occasion (n.) is the last transitional category from idea to actuality — the one logic never reaches; without it, nothing at all happens, and yet it has no part in what happens.
An Occasion (n.) is the wittiest of categories: like a wren it is everywhere and nowhere, and like the fairies invisible to all schoolmasters.