No Author Has Created With

Art At Its Greatest Is Fantastically Deceitful And Complex.

And Really, The Reason We Think Of Death In Celestial Terms Is That The Visible Firmament, Especially At Night (above Our Blacked-out Paris With The Gaunt Arches Of Its Boulevard Exelmans And The Ceaseless Alpine Gurgle Of Desolate Latrines), Is The Most Adequate And Ever-present Symbol Of That Vast Silent Explosion.

We Hasten To Alienate The Very Fates We Intended To Woo.

Beauty Plus Pity -- That Is The Closest We Can Get To A Definition Of Art.

I See Nothing For The Treatment Of My Misery But The Melancholy And Very Local Palliative Of Articulate Art.