There Is Virtue In Virtuosity, Especially Today,

One Gets Tired Of The Role Critics Are Supposed To Have In This Culture: It's Like Being The Piano Player In A Whorehouse; You Don't Have Any Control Over The Action Going On Upstairs.

We Have Entered A Period Of Intolerance Which Combines, As It Sometimes Does In America, With A Sugary Taste For Euphemism.

The Greater The Artist, The Greater The Doubt.

For The Machine Meant The Conquest Of Horizontal Space. It Also Meant A Sense Of That Space Which Few People Had Experienced Before – The Succession And Superimposition Of Views, The Unfolding Of Landscape In Flickering Surfaces As One Was Carried Swiftly Past It, And An Exaggerated Feeling Of Relative Motion (the Poplars Nearby Seeming To Move Faster Than The Church Spire Across The Field) Due To Parallax. The View From The Train Was Not The View From The Horse. It Compressed More Motifs Into The Same Time. Conversely, It Left Less Time In Which To Dwell On Any One Thing.

Popular In Our Time, Unpopular In His. So Runs The Stereotype Of Rejected Genius.