Stupidity Is Always Astounding, No Matter How

The Poet Never Asks For Admiration; He Wants To Be Believed.

At All Costs The True World Of Childhood Must Prevail, Must Be Restored; That World Whose Momentous, Heroic, Mysterious Quality Is Fed On Airy Nothings, Whose Substance Is So Ill-fitted To Withstand The Brutal Touch Of Adult Inquisition.

One Must Be A Living Man And A Posthumous Artist.

A Man's Truest Self Realizations Might Require Him, Above All, To Learn To Close His Eyes: To Let Himself Be Taken Unawares, To Follow His Dark Angel, To Risk His Illegal Instincts.

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