Man Is Profoundly Dependent On

We Say 'forest' But This Word Is Made Of The Unknown, The Unfamiliar, The Unencompassed. The Earth. Clods Of Dirt. Pebbles. On A Clear Day You Rest Among Ordinary, Everyday Things That Have Been Familiar To You Since Childhood, Grass, Bushes, A Dog (or A Cat), A Chair, But That Changes When You Realize That Every Object Is An Enormous Army, An Inexhaustible Swarm.

Any Artist Who Respects Himself Ought To Be, And In Every Sense Of The Term, An Emigre.

Our Element Is Unending Immaturity.

Against The Background Of General Freakishness The Case Of My Particular Freakishness Was Lost.

It Is In The Prime Of Youth That Man Sinks Into Empty Phrases And Grimaces. It's In This Smithy That Our Maturity Is Forged.