The Writer Is One Who,

There Was No Particular Point At Which I Stopped Being Promising.

And I Sat There Getting Drunker And Drunker And More In Love And More In Love...and You Can Never Touch A Girl In The Same Way More Than Once, Twice, Or Another Number Of Times However Much You May Wish To Hold, Wrap, Or Otherwise Fix Her Hand, Or Look, Or Some Other Quality, Or Incident, Known To You Previously.

The Question So Often Asked Of Modern Painting, "what Is It?", Contains More Than The Dull Skepticism Of The Man Who Is Not Going To Have The Wool Pulled Over His Eyes. It Speaks Of A Fundamental Placement In Relation To The Work, That Of A Voyager In The World Coming Upon A Strange Object. The Reader Reconstitutes The Work By His Active Participation, By Approaching The Object, Tapping It, Shaking It, Holding It To His Ear To Hear The Roaring Within. It Is Characteristic Of The Object That It Does Not Declare Itself All At Once, In A Rush Of Pleasant Naïveté.

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position.

Let Me Point Out, If It Has Escaped Your Notice, That What An Artist Does, Is Fail.