How Our Old Friend [michelangelo] Of The

Don't For A Moment Believe He Was Killing The Young; He Was Costuming Angels.

The Actual Tragedies Of Life Bear No Relation To One's Preconceived Ideas. In The Event, One Is Always Bewildered By Their Simplicity, Their Grandeur Of Design, And By That Element Of The Bizarre Which Seems Inherent In Them.

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!

I Only Fear The Death Of Others. For Me, True Death Is That Of The People I Love

You Are Always Concentrated On The Inner Thing. The Moment One Becomes Aware Of The Crowd, Performs For The Crowd, It Is Spectacle.