My Soul Travels On The

There Is A Word, In A Verb, Something Sacred Which Forbids Us From Using It Recklessly. To Handle A Language Cunningly Is To Practice A Kind Of Evocative Sorcery.

A Frenzied Passion For Art Is A Canker That Devours Everything Else.

What Is Exhilarating In Bad Taste Is The Aristocratic Pleasure Of Giving Offense.

He Who Looks Through An Open Window Sees Fewer Things Than He Who Looks Through A Closed Window.

Our Religion Is Itself Profoundly Sad - A Religion Of Universal Anguish, And One Which, Because Of Its Very Catholicity, Grants Full Liberty To The Individual And Asks No Better Than To Be Celebrated In Each Man's Own Language - So Long As He Knows Anguish And Is A Painter.