The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I

In A Museum In London There Is An Exhibit Called "the Value Of Man": A Long Coffinlike Box With Lots Of Compartments Where They've Put Starch Phosphorus Flour Bottles Of Water And Alcohol And Big Pieces Of Gelatin. I Am A Man Like That.

To Define Is To Kill. To Suggest Is To Create.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.