Were We Closer To The Ground As

What I'm Above All Primarily Concerned With Is The Substance Of Life, The Pith Of Reality. If I Had To Sum Up My Work, I Suppose That's It Really: I'm Taking The Pith Out Of Reality.

I Suppose I'm The Only Person Who Remembers One Of The Most Exciting Of His Ballets-it's The Fruit Of An Unlikely Collaboration Between Nijinsky On The One Hand And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle On The Other.

I Was An Only Child. I Lost Both My Parents. By The Time I Was Twenty I Was Bald. I'm Homosexual. In The Way Of Circumstances And Background To Transcend I Had Everything An Artist Could Possibly Want. It Was Practically A Blueprint.

I Tried To Explain To Her The Significance Of The Great Poet, But Without Much Success, The Waste Land Not Figuring Very Largely In Mam's Scheme Of Things. "the Thing Is," I Said Finally, "he Won The Nobel Prize." "well," She Said, With That Unerring Grasp Of Inessentials Which Is The Prerogative Of Mothers, "i'm Not Surprised. It Was A Beautiful Overcoat."

Mark My Words, When A Society Has To Resort To The Lavatory For Its Humour, The Writing Is On The Wall.