No One Has Ever Written, Painted, Sculpted,

I Destroy Because For Me Everything That Proceeds From Reason Is Untrustworthy. I Believe Only In The Evidence Of What Stirs My Marrow, Not In The Evidence Of What Addresses Itself To My Reason. I Have Found Levels In The Realm Of The Nerve. I Now Feel Capable Of Evaluating The Evidence. There Is For Me An Evidence In The Realm Of Pure Flesh Which Has Nothing To Do With The Evidence Of Reason. The Eternal Conflict Between Reason And The Heart Is Decided In My Very Flesh, But In My Flesh Irrigated By Nerves.

For The Lost Are Lost By Nature, All Your Ideas Of Moral Regeneration Will Make No Difference, There Is An Innate Determinism, There Is An Undeniable Incurability In Suicide, Crime, Idiocy, Madness, There Is An Invincible Cuckoldry In Man, There Is A Congenital Weakness Of The Character, A Castration Of The Mind.

The Actor Is Merely A Crude Empiricist, A Practitioner Guided By Vague Instinct.

When We Speak The Word 'life,' It Must Be Understood We Are Not Referring To Life As We Know It From Its Surface Of Fact, But To That Fragile, Fluctuating Center Which Forms Never Reach.

Written Poetry Is Worth Reading Once, And Then Should Be Destroyed. Let The Dead Poets Make Way For Others. Then We Might Even Come To See That It Is Our Veneration For What Has Already Been Created, However Beautiful And Valid It May Be, That Petrifies Us.