Write About What You're Afraid Of.

Let Me Point Out, If It Has Escaped Your Notice, That What An Artist Does, Is Fail.

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, But Because It Wishes To Be Art.

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.

"i Smell Fennel," Launcelot Said. "that Reminds Me, I Should Tell You I Have Discovered A Specific For Maims. You Take Salt, Good-quality River Mud, And Bee Urine, And Slather It On The Maim And Hold It There For Two Days. Works Like A Charm. Gathering The Bee Urine Is A Bit Of A Bore."

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.