The Bed Is Now As

Fine Art, That Exists For Itself Alone, Is Art In A Final State Of Impotence. If Nobody, Including The Artist, Acknowledges Art As A Means Of Knowing The World, Then Art Is Relegated To A Kind Of Rumpus Room Of The Mind And The Irresponsibility Of The Artist And The Irrelevance Of Art To Actual Living Becomes Part And Parcel Of The Practice Of Art.

Cities Have Sexes: London Is A Man, Paris A Woman, And New York A Well-adjusted Transsexual.

Among The Monsters, I Am Well Hidden; Who Looks For A Leaf In A Forest?

He Was A Lovely Man In Many Ways. But He Kept On Insisting On Forgiving Me When There Was Nothing To Forgive.

The Only Time I Ever Iron The Sheets Or Make Meringues Is When There Is An ... Urgent Deadline In The Offing.