What An Artist Is For Is To

The Last Faint Spark In The Self-murdered Heart, The Wounds Of The Sad Uncomprehending Dark, The Wounds Of The Baited Bear,-- The Blind And Weeping Bear Whom The Keepers Beat On His Helpless Flesh . . . The Tears Of The Hunted Hare.

It Is Hardly Respectable To Be Good Nowadays.

Eccentricity Is Not, As Some Would Believe, A Form Of Madness. It Is Often A Kind Of Innocent Pride, And The Man Of Genius And The Aristocrat Are Frequently Regarded As Eccentrics Because Genius And Aristocrat Are Entirely Unafraid Of And Uninfluenced By The Opinions And Vagaries Of The Crowd.

I'm Afraid I'm Being An Awful Nuisance.

I'm Not The Man To Baulk At A Low Smell, I'm Not The Man To Insist On Asphodel. This Sounds Like A He-fellow, Don't You Think? It Sounds Like That. I Belch, I Bawl, I Drink.