A Thousand Kindnesses Do Not Make Up

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

Because Language Is The Carrier Of Ideas, It Is Easy To Believe That It Should Be Very Little Else Than Such A Carrier.

The Art Of One Period Cannot Be Approached Through The Attitudes (emotional Or Intellectual) Of Another.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

Once Form Has Been Smashed, It Has Been Smashed For Good, And Once A Forbidden Subject Has Been Released, It Has Been Released For Good.