If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.

He who gets nearer the sun is leader, the aristocrat of aristocrats, or he who, like Dostoevsky, gets nearest the moon of our non-being.

Oh build your ship of death. Oh build it! For you will need it. For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.

Now go away then, and leave me alone. I don't want any more of your meretricious persiflage.

And to my lips' Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my slim White body drips The shining hymn.

I have lived among enough painters and around studios to have had all the theories - and how contradictory they are - rammed down my throat. A man has to have a gizzard like an ostrich to digest all the brass-tacks and wire nails of modern art theories.

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.