At Night, When The Curtains Are Drawn

The Work Of Art Assumes The Existence Of The Perfect Spectator, And Is Indifferent To The Fact That No Such Person Exists.

A Critic Has No Right To The Narrowness Which Is The Frequent Prerogative Of The Creative Artist.

Only People Who Have Been Allowed To Practise Freedom Can Have The Grown-up Look In Their Eyes.

The Middle Age Of Buggers Is Not To Be Contemplated Without Horror.

He Stretched Out His Hands As He Sang, Sadly, Because All Beauty Is Sad…the Poem Had Done No ‘good’ To Anyone, But It Was A Passing Reminder, A Breath From The Divine Lips Of Beauty, A Nightingale Between Two Worlds Of Dust. Less Explicit Than The Call To Krishna, It Voiced Our Loneliness Nevertheless, Our Isolation, Our Need For The Friend Who Never Comes Yet Is Not Entirely Disproved.