O Fortunate Bride, Who Never Again Will

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

... Politics Are Nothing But Sand And Gravel: It Is Art And Life That Feed Us Until We Die. Everything Else Is Ambition, Hysteria Or Hatred.

Perhaps This Very Instant Is Your Time.

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

True Revolutions In Art Restore More Than They Destroy.