Is Death That Which Gives

I Don’t Think You Can Talk About Progress In Art—movement, But Not Progress.

And I Sat There Getting Drunker And Drunker And More In Love And More In Love.

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

The Self Cannot Be Escaped, But It Can Be, With Ingenuity And Hard Work, Distracted.

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, But Because It Wishes To Be Art.