No art goes unmediated by other art.

It is an oldish question, but not perhaps a very interesting one, whether cooking is an art or not.

We have entered a period of intolerance which combines, as it sometimes does in America, with a sugary taste for euphemism. This conjunction fosters events that go beyond the wildest dream of satire- if satire existed in America anymore; perhaps the reason for its weakness is that reality has superseded it.

Landscape is to American painting what sex and psychoanalysis are to the American novel.

A Gustave Courbet portrait of a trout has more death in it than Rubens could get in a whole Crucifixion.

Perhaps the rhinos and she-crocodiles whose gyrations between Mortimer's and East Hampton gives us our vision of social eminence today are content to entrust their faces to Andy Warhol's mingily cosmetic Polaroidising, but one would bet they would rather go to Sargent.

Popular in our time, unpopular in his. So runs the stereotype of rejected genius.