Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is

At All Costs The True World Of Childhood Must Prevail, Must Be Restored; That World Whose Momentous, Heroic, Mysterious Quality Is Fed On Airy Nothings, Whose Substance Is So Ill-fitted To Withstand The Brutal Touch Of Adult Inquisition.

Appreciation Of Art Is A Moral Erection, Otherwise Mere Dilettantism.

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

One Sits Down First; One Thinks Afterwards.