Memories Are Hunting Horns Whose Sound Dies

Matisse Renovates Rather Than Innovates.

I Love Men, Not For What Unites Them, But For What Divides Them, And I Want To Know Most Of All What Gnaws At Their Hearts.

Twentieth Pupil Of The Centuries Knows Its Stuff And Bird-changed This Century Like Jesus Climbs The Sky.

Without Poets, Without Artists... Everything Would Fall Apart Into Chaos. There Would Be No More Seasons, No More Civilizations, No More Thought, No More Humanity, No More Life Even; And Impotent Darkness Would Reign Forever. Poets And Artists Together Determine The Features Of Their Age, And The Future Meekly Conforms To Their Edit.

I Hate Artists Who Are Not Of Their Time.