If an artist
doesn’t like his work,
the simplest cure
is to talk about it.



An apparent nephew of one of the Fortunate Five Hundred Soreheads, whenever he’d hear someone say, “Well, I can’t say’s I blame you,” would think, “They’re just not trying.”



Almost every morning, this one guy would stand before his full length mirror, stretch out his hands and sing out, “Are we not handsome?”  Then one day, he changes it and says, “Are we not brilliant,” and his brain sez, “What do you mean, we?”



In ordinary Earth affairs, men are inclined to shout out, “Waiter, more of the same over here – much more!” while a revolutionist would look for a back way out.



Just as an ordinary artist is struck dumb when asked what an abstract painting means, so too might a revolutionist be non-plused when asked – even by himself – what anything means.  (Soon after finishing this particular written note to you, a passing squint-eyed stranger glanced at same and conclusively commented, “If things don’t mean what they mean, they don’t mean shit.”  You know, it’s fairly uninteresting what you can’t learn from strangers if they don’t pass fast enough.)