The Death Of God Left The Angels

The Question So Often Asked Of Modern Painting, "what Is It?", Contains More Than The Dull Skepticism Of The Man Who Is Not Going To Have The Wool Pulled Over His Eyes. It Speaks Of A Fundamental Placement In Relation To The Work, That Of A Voyager In The World Coming Upon A Strange Object. The Reader Reconstitutes The Work By His Active Participation, By Approaching The Object, Tapping It, Shaking It, Holding It To His Ear To Hear The Roaring Within. It Is Characteristic Of The Object That It Does Not Declare Itself All At Once, In A Rush Of Pleasant Naïveté.

Now It Is Necessary To Court Her, And Win Her, And Put On This Clean Dressing Gown, And Cut My Various Nails, And Drink Something That Will Kill The Millions Of Germs In My Mouth, And Say Something Flattering, And Be Witty And Bonny, And Hale And Kinky, All Just To Ease This Wrinkle In The Groin. It Seems A High Price.

My Mother Studied English And Drama At The University Of Pennsylvania, Where My Father Studied Architecture. She Was A Great Influence In All Sorts Of Ways, A Wicked Wit.

Who Among Us Is Not Thinking About Divorce, Except For A Few Tiny-minded Stick-in-the-muds Who Don't Count?

Succeed! It Has Been Done, And With A Stupidity That Can Astound The Most Experienced.