The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame

Our Memories Are Card Indexes Consulted And Then Returned In Disorder By Authorities Whom We Do Not Control.

The Artist Secretes Nostalgia Around Life.

We Cannot Be Happy Until We Can Love Ourselves Without Egotism And Our Friends Without Tyranny.

Greed, Like The Love Of Comfort, Is A Kind Of Fear.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom.