The Worst Tragedy For A Poet Is

Whatever The Public Blames You For, Cultivate It; It Is Yourself.

The Preservation Of Friendship Is Seen As Opportunism. You Are Required To Be In One Camp Or The Other. You Are Enjoined To Cut Your Heartstrings If They Extend Across The Barricade.

Art Is Science Made Flesh.

In Two Weeks, Despite These Notes, I Shall No Longer Believe In What I Am Experiencing Now. One Must Leave Behind A Trace Of This Journey Which Memory Forgets. One Must, When This Is Impossible, Write Or Draw Without Responding To The Romantic Solicitations Of Pain, Without Enjoying Suffering Like Music, Tieing A Pen To One's Foot If Need Be, Helping The Doctors Who Can Learn Nothing From Laziness.

The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.