The Modern Artist, By Nature

In History, Stagnant Waters, Whether They Be The Stagnant Waters Of Custom Or Those Of Despotism, Harbour No Life; Life Is Dependent On The Ripples Created By A Few Eccentric Individuals. In Homage To That Life & Vitality, The Community Has To Brave Certain Perils And Must Countenance A Measure Of Heresy. One Must Live Dangerously If One Wants To Live At All.

The Only Sin Is Ugliness, And If We Believed This With All Our Being, All Other Activities Of The Human Spirit Could Be Left To Take Care Of Themselves.

The Great Modern Heresy In Poetry Is To Confuse The Use We Make Of Words In A Poem With Modalities Of Speech...for True Poetry Is Never Speech But Always A Song.

I Can Imagine No Society Which Does Not Embody Some Method Of Arbitration.

The Classicist, And The Naturalist Who Has Much In Common With Him, Refuse To See In The Highest Works Of Art Anything But The Exercise Of Judgement, Sensibility, And Skill. The Romanticist Cannot Be Satisfied With Such A Normal Standard; For Him Art Is Essentially Irrational - An Experience Beyond Normality, Sometimes Destructive Of Normality, And At The Very Least Evocative Of That State Of Wonder Which Is The State Of Mind Induced By The Immediately Inexplicable.