The Act Of Love Is A Confession.

More And More, Revolution Has Found Itself Delivered Into The Hands Of Its Bureaucrats And Doctrinaires On The One Hand, And To The Enfeebled And Bewildered Masses On The Other.

It's Not Your Pictures I Like; It's Your Painting.

Thoughts Of Suicide Have Got Me Through Many A Bad Night.

All I Maintain Is That On This Earth There Are Pestilences And There Are Victims, And It's Up To Us, So Far As Possible, Not To Join Forces With The Pestilences. That May Sound Simple To The Point Of Childishness; I Can't Judge If It's Simple, But I Know It's True.

No Cause Justifies The Deaths Of Innocent People.