When Words Cease To Cling Close To

The Serious Artist Must Be As Open As Nature. Nature Does Not Give All Of Herself In A Paragraph. She Is Rugged And Not Set Apart Into Discreet Categories.

A General Loathing Of A Gang Or Sect Usually Has Some Sound Basis In Instinct.

Use No Word That Under Stress Of Emotion You Could Not Actually Say.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

A Crowd Pagan As Ever Imperial Rome Was, Eager, Careless, With An Animal Vigour Unlike That Of Any European Crowd That I Have Ever Looked At.