On Sorrow Floats Laughter.

What Can You Say About A Guy Who Lets Himself Be Saddled With A Baby When He's Thirty-five And Losing His Hair? Love? Forget About That Till You're Past Seventy, And By Then The Parts Will Have Stopped Working Anyway.

Art Is Accusation, Expression, Passion. Art Is Black Charcoal Crushing White Paper.

Everything Bigger Than Life Attracts A Crowd.

Art Is Uncompromising, And Life Is Full Of Compromises.

Art Is So Wonderfully Irrational, Exuberantly Pointless, But Necessary All The Same. Pointless And Yet Necessary, That's Hard For A Puritan To Understand.