An Art Book Is A

Our Characteristic Response To The Mutilated Statue, The Bronze Dug Up From The Earth, Is Revealing. It Is Not That We Prefer Time-worn Bas-reliefs, Or Rusted Statuettes As Such, Nor Is It The Vestiges Of Death That Grip Us In Them, But Those Of Life. Mutilation Is The Scar Left By The Struggle With Time, And A Reminder Of It - Time Which Is As Much A Part Of Ancient Works Of Art As The Material They Are Made Of, And Thrusts Up Through The Fissures, From A Dark Underworld, Where All Is At Once Chaos And Determinism.

In So Far As He Is A Creator, The Artist Does Not Belong To A Social Group Already Moulded By A Culture, But To A Culture Which He Is By Way Of Building Up.

What Is Man? A Miserable Little Pile Of Secrets.

A Large Share Of Our Art Heritage Is Now Derived From Peoples Whose Idea Of Art Was Quite Other Than Ours, And Even From Peoples To Whom The Very Idea Of Art Meant Nothing.

Seldom Is A Gothic Head More Beautiful Than When Broken.