The Artist Is A Member Of The

Words Today Are Like The Shells And Rope Of Seaweed Which A Child Brings Home Glistening From The Beach And Which In An Hour Have Lost Their Luster.

There Is No Suicide For Which All Society Is Not Responsible.

Imprisoned In Every Fat Man A Thin One Is Wildly Signalling To Be Let Out.

Only By Avoiding The Beginning Of Things Can We Escape Their End.

The Worst Vice Of The Solitary Is The Worship Of His Food.