A Film Is A Petrified Fountain Of

The Speed Of A Runaway Horse Counts For Nothing.

The Only Work Of Art Which Succeeds Is That Which Fails.

Take A Commonplace, Clean It And Polish It, Light It So That It Produces The Same Effect Of Youth And Freshness And Originality And Spontaneity As It Did Originally, And You Have Done A Poet's Job. The Rest Is Literature.

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.

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.