Don't Tell Friends Their Social Faults; They

The Truth Is That The Phenomena Of Artistic Production Are Still So Obscure, So Baffling, We Are Still So Far From An Accurate Scientific And Psychological Knowledge Of Their Genesis Or Meaning, That We Are Forced To Accept Them As Empirical Facts; And Empirical And Non-explanatory Names Are The Names That Suit Them Best.

We Need New Friends; Some Of Us Are Cannibals Who Have Eaten Their Old Friends Up; Others Must Have Ever-renewed Audiences Before Whom To Re-enact The Ideal Version Of Their Lives.

How It Infuriates A Bigot, When He Is Forced To Drag Out His Dark Convictions!

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

I Like To Walk Down Bond Street, Thinking Of All The Things I Don't Desire.