Art Is Accusation, Expression, Passion. Art Is

Even Bad Books Are Books And Therefore Sacred.

I Had An Uncle Who Was A Postal Official At The Polish Post Office In Gdansk. He Was One Of The Defenders Of The Polish Postal Service And, After It Capitulated, Was Shot By The Germans Under The Provisions Of Martial Law. Suddenly He Was No Longer A Member Of The Family, And We Were No Longer Allowed To Play With His Children.

Love That’s It: The Cashless Commerce. The Blanket Always Too Short. The Loose Connexion. To Search Behind The Horizon. To Brush Fallen Leaves With Four Shoes And In One’s Mind To Rub Bare Feet. To Let And Rent Hearts; Or In A Room With Shower And Mirror, In A Hired Car, Bonnet Facing The Moon, Wherever Innocence Stops And Burns Its Programme, The Word In Falsetto Sounds Different And New Each Time. Today, In Front Of A Box Office Not Yet Open, Hand In Hand Crackled The Hangdog Old Man And The Dainty Old Woman. The Film Promised Love.

Art Is Hard For A Puritan To Understand.

I Wept When The Muse Ulla Bent Over Me. Blinded By Tears I Could Not Prevent Her From Kissing Me, I Could Not Prevent The Muse From Giving Me That Terrible Kiss. All Of You Who Have Ever Been Kissed By The Muse Will Surely Understand That Oskar, Once Branded By That Kiss, Was Condemned To Take Back The Drum He Had Rejected Years Before, The Drum He Had Buried In The Sand Of Sapse Cemetery.