There Are Too Many Souls Of Wood

A Picture Is Not A Window...an Abstract Refers To No Reality But Its Own.

Nothing Is More Intriguing Than A Still Photograph In The Middle Of A Motion Picture... Just As An Accident Is A Cry Changed Into Silence And Not A Silence After A Cry, Photography Is Speed Rendered Motionless.

Poets Don't Draw. They Unravel Their Handwriting And Then Tie It Up Again, But Differently.

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

What Is Line? It Is Life. A Line Must Live At Each Point Along Its Course In Such A Way That The Artist's Presence Makes Itself Felt Above That Of The Model... With The Writer, Line Takes Precedence Over Form And Content. It Runs Through The Words He Assembles. It Strikes A Continuous Note Unperceived By Ear Or Eye. It Is, In A Way, The Soul's Style, And If The Line Ceases To Have A Life Of Its Own, If It Only Describes An Arabesque, The Soul Is Missing And The Writing Dies.