Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

There's no lack of void.

Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.