When Words Cease To Cling Close To

Fit For Kings, Formal Gardens Afford An Earthly Elysium And The Odd Impression That We Mere Men Might Actually Control Nature For A Time.

What Counts Is The Cultural Level

The Age Demanded An Image Of Its Accelerated Grimace, Something For The Modern Stage, Not, At Any Rate, An Attic Grace.

Either Move Or Be Moved.

The Modern Artist Must Live By Craft And Violence. His Gods Are Violent Gods. Those Artists, So Called, Whose Work Does Not Show This Strife, Are Uninteresting.