The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go

The Only Work Of Art Which Succeeds Is That Which Fails.

We Are In A Period Of Such Individualism That One No Longer Speaks Of Disciples; One Speaks Of Thieves.

The Extreme Limit Of Wisdom, That's What The Public Calls Madness.

May The Devil Himself Splatter You With Dung.

Enough Of Clouds, Waves, Aquariums, Water-sprites And Nocturnal Scents; What We Need Is Music Of The Earth, Everyday Music..music One Can Live In Like A House.