The Poet Is A Liar Who Always

Take A Commonplace, Clean It And Polish It, Light It So That It Produces The Same Effect Of Youth And Freshness And Originality And Spontaneity As It Did Originally, And You Have Done A Poet's Job. The Rest Is Literature.

A Picture Is Not A Window...an Abstract Refers To No Reality But Its Own.

You Have Comfort. You Don't Have Luxury. And Don't Tell Me That Money Plays A Part. The Luxury I Advocate Has Nothing To Do With Money. It Cannot Be Bought. It Is The Reward Of Those Who Have No Fear Or Discomfort.

Lying Is The Only Art Form That The Public Sanctions And Instinctively Prefers To Reality.

The Smell Of Opium Is The Least Stupid Smell In The World.