The Poet Is At The Disposal Of

Don't For A Moment Believe He Was Killing The Young; He Was Costuming Angels.

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.

Poetry, Being Elegance Itself, Cannot Hope To Achieve Visibility... It Insists On Living Its Own Life.

The Composer Opens The Cage Door For Arithmetic, The Draftsman Gives Geometry Its Freedom.

A Film Is A Petrified Fountain Of Thought.