Perhaps I Know To What Extent I

Vivre Est Une Chute Horizontale. Life Is A Horizontal Fall.

What The Public Criticizes In You, Cultivate. It Is You.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

Poets Don't Draw. They Unravel Their Handwriting And Then Tie It Up Again, But Differently.

A Man's Truest Self Realizations Might Require Him, Above All, To Learn To Close His Eyes: To Let Himself Be Taken Unawares, To Follow His Dark Angel, To Risk His Illegal Instincts.