The Poet Is At The

A Picture Is Not A Window...an Abstract Refers To No Reality But Its Own.

The Runner Stopped Dead, Lost His Balance, Froze In One Of Those Violent Attitudes In Which The Photographers Petrify Living Reality.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go There To Identify Your Friends.

Youth Is Certain What It Rejects Before It Knows What It Will Accept.