The Flower And Fruit Of

If A Lady Comes Up To You And Tells You That Your Dear Mama Is Lying In A Faint On The Pavement Round The Corner, Don't You Believe Her, Don't Have Anything To Do With Her, Do Not Go With Her Into The Cab. It Is The White Slave Traffic.

Cry Pretty, Pretty, Pretty And You'll Be Able Very Soon Not Even To Cry Pretty And So Be Delivered Entirely From Humanity This Is Prettiest Of All, It Is Very Pretty.

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.

There Can Be No Good Art That Is International. Art To Be Vigorous And Gesund Must Use The Material At Hand.

My Muse Sits Forlorn She Wishes She Had Not Been Born She Sits In The Cold No Word She Says Is Ever Told.