The Object Of Art Is

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Propaganda Is A Soft Weapon; Hold It In Your Hands Too Long, And It Will Move About Like A Snake, And Strike The Other Way.

One Can Make One's Life A Complete Misery, Worrying About Burglaries And Shipwrecks, But Ask Anyone, Anyone You Know ... Earth-shattering Disasters And Fabulous Inheritances All Seems To Take Place Exclusively In The Newspapers.

Death Is Beautiful. It Alone Gives Love Its True Habitat.

The Only Immorality Is Not To Do What One Has To Do When One Has To Do It.