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The Hot Hall Full Of Painted Girls And American Soldiers Is A Saloon In Some Western Film. This Noise Drenches Us, Wakens Us To Do Something Else. It Shows Us A Lost Path.

All Good Music Resembles Something. Good Music Stirs By Its Mysterious Resemblance To The Objects And Feelings Which Motivated It.

Whatever The Public Blames You For, Cultivate It; It Is Yourself.

Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is Noticed.

At All Costs The True World Of Childhood Must Prevail, Must Be Restored; That World Whose Momentous, Heroic, Mysterious Quality Is Fed On Airy Nothings, Whose Substance Is So Ill-fitted To Withstand The Brutal Touch Of Adult Inquisition.