I Dunno What My 23 Infantile Years

All Great Art Is Born Of The Metropolis.

I Have Always Thought The Suicide Should Bump Off At Least One Swine Before Taking Off For Parts Unknown.

Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To Its Essentials.

Go To The Adolescent Who Are Smothered In Family-- Oh How Hideous It Is To See Three Generations Of One House Gathered Together! It Is Like An Old Tree With Shoots, And With Some Branches Rotted And Falling.

Art Is To Be Admired Rather Than Explained. The Jargon Of These Sculptors Is Beyond Me. I Do Not Precisely Know Why I Admire A Green Granite, Female, Apparently Pregnant Monster With One Eye Going Around A Square Corner.