Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With

In Reading, A Lonely Quiet Concert Is Given To Our Minds; All Our Mental Faculties Will Be Present In This Symphonic Exaltation.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

A Throw Of The Dice Will Never Abolish Chance.

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.