The Artist Is Present In

One Can't Judge Till One's Forty; Before That We're Too Eager, Too Hard, Too Cruel, And In Addition Much Too Ignorant.

The Practice Of "reviewing"... In General Has Nothing In Common With The Art Of Criticism.

The Faculty Of Attention Has Utterly Vanished From The Anglo-saxon Mind, Extinguished At Its Source By The Big Bayad?re Of Journalism, Of The Newspaper And The Picture Magazine Which Keeps Screaming, "look At Me." Illustrations, Loud Simplifications... Bill Poster Advertising ? Only These Stand A Chance.

I Recall My Fleeting Instants In Savannah As The Taste Of A Cup Charged To The Brim.

Everything About Florence Seems To Be Colored With A Mild Violet, Like Diluted Wine.