The performing artist, deadened by repetition, is an uninspired inspirer.
Viewing art in tourist season is like visiting Mount Fuji under low clouds.
Hearing albums we own in public, we hum more passionately than at home, our complacency as owners replaced by our longing as outsiders.
Subtlety and complexity in art sadly tend to undermine themselves. They are hard to notice, in proportion as they are hard to create.
A mediocre book has the consistency of vegetable soup. The still-visible chunks of others' thoughts soak in the watery broth of the writer's own voice.
In a concert hall, the girl in bloom closes her eyes and imagines all she may be, while beside her the wrinkled widow closes her eyes and remembers all she has been.
Because young writers feel impassioned, they try too hard to impassion their readers. Should not the reader forgive this falseness born of authenticity?