The Clown May Be The Source Of

Fine Art, That Exists For Itself Alone, Is Art In A Final State Of Impotence. If Nobody, Including The Artist, Acknowledges Art As A Means Of Knowing The World, Then Art Is Relegated To A Kind Of Rumpus Room Of The Mind And The Irresponsibility Of The Artist And The Irrelevance Of Art To Actual Living Becomes Part And Parcel Of The Practice Of Art.

I Will Tell You What Jeanne Was Like. She Was Like A Piano In A Country Where Everyone Has Had Their Hands Cut Off.

Pornography Is A Satire On Human Pretensions.

What Do You See When You See Me?' She Asked Him, Burying Her Own Face In His Bosom. 'do You Want The Truth?' She Nodded. 'the Firing Squad.' 'that's Not The Whole Truth. Try Again.' 'insatiability,' He Said With Some Bitterness. 'that's Oblique But Altogether Too Simple. Once More,' She Insisted. 'one More Time.' He Was Silent For Several Minutes. 'the Map Of A Country In Which I Only Exist By Virtue Of The Extravagance Of My Metaphors.' 'now You're Being Too Sophisticated. And, Besides, What Metaphors Do We Have In Common?

Anxiety Is The Beginning Of Conscience, Which Is The Parent Of The Soul But Is Not Compatible With Innocence.