Just Spunk Won't Be Enough;

One Thing I Feel Is This: That A Great Deal Of Poetry Is The Product Of Adolescence-or Of An Emotionally Adolescent Frame Of Mind: And That As This State Of Mind Changes, Poetry Is Likely To Dry Up.

The Artist's Task Is Not To Alter The World As The Eye Sees It Into A World Of Aesthetic Reality, But To Perceive The Aesthetic Reality Within The Actual Reality. (on Photographs By Helen Levitt)

I Believe That Every Human Being Is Potentially Capable Within His 'limits' Of Fully 'realizing' His Potentialities; That This, His Being Cheated And Choked Of It, Is Infinitely The Ghastliest, Commonest, And Most Inclusive Of All The Crimes Of Which The Human World Can Assure Itself.

...but You Are Too Much For Them: The Weak In Courage Are Strong In Cunning; And One By One, You Have Absorbed And Have Captured And Dishonored, And Have Distilled Of Your Deliverers The Most Ruinous Of All Poisons; People Hear Beethoven In Concert Halls, Or Over A Bridge Game, Or To Relax; Cézannes Are Hung On Walls, Reproduced, In Natural Wood Frames; Van Gogh Is The Man Who Cut Off His Ear And Whose Yellows Became Recently Popular In Window Decoration.

For In The Immediate World, Everything Is To Be Discerned, For Him Who Can Discern It, And Central And Simply, Without Either Dissection Into Science, Or Digestion Into Art, But With The Whole Of Consciousness, Seeking To Perceive It As It Stands: So That The Aspect Of A Street In Sunlight Can Roar In The Heart Of Itself As A Symphony, Perhaps As No Symphony Can: And All Of Consciousness Is Shifted From The Imagined, The Revisive, To The Effort To Perceive Simply The Cruel Radiation Of What Is.