Art At Its Greatest Is

I See Nothing For The Treatment Of My Misery But The Melancholy And Very Local Palliative Of Articulate Art.

...all My Best Words Are Deserters And Do Not Answer The Trumpet Call, And The Remainder Are Cripples.

But In My Arms She Was Always Lolita.

The Evolution Of Sense Is, In A Sense, The Evolution Of Nonsense.

My Answer To Your Question'does The Writer Have A Social Responsibility?' Is No.you Owe Me Ten Cents, Sir.