Presentation, not reference.

America is a lunatic asylum.

The artist is the antenna of the race.

And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse Not shaking the grass

No man understands a deep book until he has seen and lived at least part of its contents.

I once saw a small child go to an electric light switch as say, Mamma, can I open the light? She was using the age-old language of exploration, the language of art.

And the betrayers of language ...... n and the press gang And those who had lied for hire; The perverts, the perverters of language, the perverts, who have set money-lust Before the pleasures of the senses; howling, as of a hen-yard in a printing-house, the clatter of presses, the blowing of dry dust and stray paper, foetor, sweat, the stench of stale oranges.