If You Have That Unconquerable Urge To

A Real Flame Of Love Is A Subtle Thing. It Burns As A Will-o'-the-wisp, Dancing Onward To Fairy Lands Of Delight. It Roars As A Furnace. Too Often Jealousy Is The Quality Upon Which It Feeds.

Nothing Is Proved, All Is Permitted.

We Are To Have No Pictures Which The Puritan And The Narrow, Animated By An Obsolete Dogma, Cannot Approve Of. We Are To Have No Theaters No Motion Pictures, No Books, No Public Exhibitions Of Any Kind, No Speech Even Which Will Anyway Contravene His Limited View Of Life.

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

Life Is A God-damned, Stinking, Treacherous Game And Nine Hundred And Ninety-nine Men Out Of A Thousand Are Bastards.