I Hate Artists Who Are

My, How Beautiful Is War! Its Songs, Its Leisure!

We Cannot Carry Our Father's Corpse With Us Everywhere We Go.

I Don't Want To Work. I Want To Smoke.

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony. The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed. The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish. Everything Would Break Up In Chaos. There Would Be No Seasons, No Civilization, No Thought, No Humanity; Even Life Would Give Way, And The Impotent Void Would Reign Everywhere.