I Am The Soul In Limbo.

...with The End Of My Breath, Which Is The Beginning Of Yours.

Everything Tends To Make Us Believe That There Exists A Certain Point Of The Mind At Which Life And Death, The Real And The Imagined, Past And Future, The Communicable And The Incommunicable, High And Low, Cease To Be Perceived As Contradictions.

Under His (marc Chagall, Ed.) Sole Impulse Metaphor Made Its Triumphal Entry Into Modern Painting.

The Invention Of Photography Has Dealt A Mortal Blow To The Old Modes Of Expression, In Painting As Well As In Poetry, Where Automatic Writing, Which Appeared At The End Of The Nineteenth Century, Is A True Photography Of Thought. Since A Blind Instrument Now Assured Artists Of Achieving The Aim They Had Set Themselves Up To That Time, They Now Aspired, Not Without Recklessness, To Break With The Imitation Of Appearances.

I Could Spend My Whole Life Prying Loose The Secrets Of The Insane. These People Are Honest To A Fault, And Their Naivety Has No Peer But My Own.