Art At Its Greatest Is Fantastically Deceitful

Just Like A Man Grieving Because He Has Recently Lost In His Dreams Some Thing That He Had Never Had In Reality, Or Hoping That Tomorrow He Would Dream That He Found It Again. That Is How Mathematics Is Created; It Has Its Fatal Flaw.

Our Imagination Flies -- We Are Its Shadow On The Earth.

Oh, Let Me Be Mawkish For The Nonce! I Am So Tired Of Being Cynical.

Beauty Plus Pity -- That Is The Closest We Can Get To A Definition Of Art.

Her Lips Were Like Large Crimson Polyps.