Art Is A Marriage Of The Conscious

Love Is Mainly An Affair Of Short Spasms. If These Spasms Disappoint Us, Love Dies. It Is Very Seldom That It Weathers The Experience And Becomes Friendship.

If A Hermit Lives In A State Of Ecstasy, His Lack Of Comfort Becomes The Height Of Comfort. He Must Relinquish It.

Poetry Is A Religion Without Hope. The Poet Exhausts Himself In Its Service, Knowing That, In The Long Run, A Masterpiece Is Nothing But The Performance Of A Trained Dog On Very Shaky Ground.

If An Addict Who Has Been Completely Cured Starts Smoking Again He No Longer Experiences The Discomfort Of His First Addiction. There Exists, Therefore, Outside Alkaloids And Habit, A Sense For Opium, An Intangible Habit Which Lives On, Despite The Recasting Of The Organism. The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

Listen Carefully To First Criticisms Made Of Your Work. Note Just What It Is About Your Work That Critics Don't Like - Then Cultivate It. That's The Only Part Of Your Work That's Individual And Worth Keeping.