Artists Are The Antennae Of

A Slave Is One Who Waits For Someone To Come And Free Him.

My Pawing Over The Ancients And Semi-ancients Has Been One Struggle To Find Out What Has Been Done, Once And For All, Better Than It Can Ever Be Done Again, And To Find Out What Remains For Us To Do, And Plenty Does Remain, For If We Still Feel The Same Emotions As Those Who Launched A Thousand Ships, It Is Quite Certain That We Came On These Feelings Differently, Through Different Nuances, By Different Intellectual Gradations. Each Age Has Its Own Abounding Gifts Yet Only Some Ages Transmute Them Into Matters Of Duration.

Speak Against Unconscious Oppression, Speak Against The Tyranny Of The Unimaginative, Speak Against Bonds.

The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me For Here Was Love, Was Not To Be Drowned Out. And Here Desire, Not To Be Kissed Away. The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me.

And In The Mean Time My Songs Will Travel, And The Devirginated Young Ladies Will Enjoy Them When They Have Got Over The Strangeness