Art Is Science In The Flesh.

It Is Not Inspiration; It Is Expiration.

I Shall Never Forget What I Saw At The Museum Of Modern Art: In A Spotless Schoolroom, Fifty Little Girls Painting Away At Tables Covered With Brushes, Pots, Tubes, Bowls, Staring Into Space And Sticking Out Their Tongues Like The Clever Animals That Ring A Bell, Tongues Lolling And Eyes Vague. Teachers Supervise These Young Creators Of Abstract Art And Slap Their Wrists If What They Paint Represents Something And Dangerously Inclines Toward Realism. The Mothers - Still At The Picasso Stage - Are Not Admitted.

I Have Seafoam In My Veins, I Understand The Language Of Waves.

What Uniform Can I Wear To Hide My Heavy Heart? It Is Too Heavy. It Will Always Show. Jacques Felt Himself Growing Gloomy Again. He Was Well Aware That To Live On Earth A Man Must Follow Its Fashions, And Hearts Were No Longer Worn.

Every Poem Is A Coat Of Arms. It Must Be Deciphered. How Much Blood, How Many Tears In Exchange For These Axes, These Muzzles, These Unicorns, These Torches, These Towers, These Martlets, These Seedlings Of Stars And These Fields Of Blue!