Quotes about Art

Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?

Home is where the heart is, home is where the fart is. Come let us fart in the home. There is no art in a fart. Still a fart may not be artless. Let us fart and artless fart in the home.

The good parts of a book may be only something a writer is lucky enough to overhear or it may be the wreck of his whole damn life and one is as good as the other.

Prose is architecture and the Baroque age is over.

For we have been there in the books and out of the books—and where we go, if we are any good, there you can go as we have been. A country, finally, erodes and the dust blows away, the people all die and none of them were of any importance permanently, except those who practised the arts

Some say that in writing you can never possess anything until you have given it away or, if you are in a hurry, you may have to throw it away.

But we liked Miss Stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening, and the paintings and the cakes and the eau-devie were truly wonderful. They seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well-mannered and promising children and I felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married—time would fix that—and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.

We all ought to make sacrifices for literature.

Inaccrochable - A picture a painter paints and then he cannot hang it when he has a show and nobody will buy it because they cannot hang it either. -said by Gertrude Stein

But even if I never bought any more clothing ever, I said, I wouldn't have enough money to buy the Picassos that I want.

He is performing a work of art and he is playing with death, bringing it closer, closer, closer, to himself, a death that you know is in the horns because you have the canvas-covered bodies of the horses on the sand to prove it. He gives the feeling of his immortality, and, as you watch it, it becomes yours. Then when it belongs to both of you, he proves it with the sword.

For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.