I Hate Artists Who Are Not Of

Artists Are, Above All, Men Who Want To Become Inhuman.

My, How Beautiful Is War! Its Songs, Its Leisure!

I Love Men, Not For What Unites Them, But For What Divides Them, And I Want To Know Most Of All What Gnaws At Their Hearts.

Memories Are Hunting Horns Whose Sound Dies On The Wind.

Without Artists, The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed.