It Is The Individual Man In His

It's Always Our Touches Of Vanity That Manage To Betray Us.

The Moon Is Nothing But A Circumambulating Aphrodisiac Divinely Subsidized To Provoke The World Into A Rising Birth-rate

We Must Each Find Our Separate Meaning In The Persuasion Of Our Days Until We Meet In The Meaning Of The World.

An Artist's Sensitivity To Criticism Is, At Least In Part, An Effort To Keep Unimpaired The Zest, Or Confidence, Or Arrogance, Which He Needs To Make Creation Possible; Or An Instinct To Climb Through His Problems In His Own Way As He Should, And Must.

How Nature Loves The Incomplete. She Knows If She Drew A Conclusion It Would Finish Her.