May The Devil Himself Splatter You With

The Only Work Of Art Which Succeeds Is That Which Fails.

How Our Old Friend [michelangelo] Of The Sistine Would Have Loved To Photograph His Workers, Perched On The Fragile Planks. Dali Was Right To Say Leonardo Only Worked From Photographs.

The Job Of The Poet (a Job Which Can't Be Learned) Consists Of Placing Those Objects Of The Visible World Which Have Become Invisible Due To The Glue Of Habit, In An Unusual Position Which Strikes The Soul And Gives Them A Tragic Force.

There Are Poets And There Are Grownups.

The Joy Of Youth Is To Disobey; But The Trouble Is That There Are No Longer Any Orders.