To Arrive Where You Are, To Get

When Lovely Woman Stoops To Folly And Paces About Her Room Again, Alone, She Smooths Her Hair With Automatic Hand, And Puts A Record On The Gramophone.

Mediocre Writers Borrow; Great Writers Steal.

O Father, Father Gone From Us, Lost To Us, The Church Lies Bereft, Alone, Desecrated, Desolated. And The Heathen Shall Build On The Ruins Their World Without God. I See It. I See It.

Past Art Is Subject To Change.

It Is Impossible To Say Just What I Mean!