A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The

She Took Kisses Like So Many Coats Of Paint […] How Long And How Vainly I Searched For Excuses Which Might Make Her Amorality If Not Palatable At Lest Understandable. I Realize Now The Time I Wasted In This Way; Instead Of Enjoying Her And Turning Aside From These Preoccupations With The Thought, ‘she Is Untrustworthy As She Is Beautiful. She Takes Love As Plants Do Water, Lightly, Thoughtlessly.

Life, The Raw Material, Is Only Lived In Potentia Until The Artist Deploys It In His Work.

I Am Just A Refugee From The Long Slow Toothache Of English Life. It Is Terrible To Love Life So Much You Can Hardly Breathe!

Who Invented The Human Heart, I Wonder? Tell Me, And Then Show Me The Place Where He Was Hanged.

The Whole Mediterranean, The Sculpture, The Palm, The Gold Beads, The Bearded Heroes, The Wine, The Ideas, The Ships, The Moonlight, The Winged Gorgons, The Bronze Men, The Philosophers - All Of It Seems To Rise In The Sour, Pungent Taste Of These Black Olives Between The Teeth. A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.