We Have The Right To Lie, But

No One Has Ever Written, Painted, Sculpted, Modeled, Built, Or Invented Except Literally To Get Out Of Hell.

I See In The Act Of Throwing The Dice And Of Risking The Affirmation Of Some Intuitively Felt Truth, However Uncertain, My Whole Reason For Living.

Enough, I Shall Be Understood In Ten Years By People Who Will Be Doing What You Do Today. Then My Geysers Will Be Known, My Ice Floes Will Be Seen, The Secret Of Adulterating My Poisons Will Have Been Learned, The Games Of My Soul Will Be Revealed.

Written Poetry Is Worth Reading Once, And Then Should Be Destroyed. Let The Dead Poets Make Way For Others.

All True Language Is Incomprehensible, Like The Chatter Of A Beggar's Teeth.