A Bucket of Blood - Understanding Poetry and Awareness
Maxwell H. Brock:
... my poetry is understood by that minority which is aware.
Woman:
Aware of what?
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A Bucket of Blood - Encouragement and Independence in Success
Maxwell H. Brock:
I will not wish you good luck.
Walter Paisley:
Why not?
Maxwell H. Brock:
It would imply you could not succeed on your own.
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A Bucket of Blood - The Cost of Creativity and Conformity
Maxwell H. Brock:
To be uncreative you might as well be in your grave... or in the Army.
Walter Paisley:
They tried to draft me once. I couldn't pass the test.
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A Bucket of Blood - The Birth of Walter Paisley
Maxwell H. Brock:
The bird that flies now pays later through the nose of ambidextrous apathy. Necrophiles may dance upon the placemats in an orgy of togetherness. The highway of life cuts sharply through the shady ghettos and the ivy-covered tunes. And laughter rings from every time capsule in the star-spangled firmament. And in the deep freeze it is the children's hour. And no one knows that Duncan is murdered. And no one knows that Walter Paisley is born. Duncan knows, Tuesday sunrise knows. Alley cats and garbage cans and steaming pavements and you and I and the nude descending the staircase and all such things with souls, we know that Walter Paisley is born! Ring rubber bells, beat cotton gongs, strike silken cymbals, play leathern flutes. The cats and cans and you and I and all such things with souls, we shall hear: Walter Paisley is born! And the souls become flesh; Walter Paisley is born!
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A Bucket of Blood - Life as an Obscure Hobo in Art
Maxwell H. Brock:
Life is an obscure hobo, bumming a ride on the omnibus of art.
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A Bucket of Blood - Celebrating a Hidden Talent in Art
Maxwell H. Brock: [Crowd breaks into applause as Maxwell finishes his speech]
Attention. Attention, everyone! As you passed through these yellow portals I'm sure you noticed on your right a small clay figure and assumed this transfixed effigy to be the work of a master sculptor. And indeed, so it is. That master sculptor is in our midst. He's none other that Walter Paisley, our very own busboy, whose hands of genius have been carrying away the empty cups of your frustration. Mark well this lad. His is the silent voice of creation. But in the dark, rich soil of humility, he blossoms as the hope of our nearly sterile century! Bring me an espresso, Walter.
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A Bucket of Blood - The Loneliness of a Clear Mind
Maxwell H. Brock:
Walter has a clear mind. One day something will enter it, feel lonely... and leave again.
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A Bucket of Blood - Pride in Poetry's Exclusive Understanding
Maxwell H. Brock:
I'm proud to say my poetry is only understood by that minority which is aware.
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A Bucket of Blood - The Value of New Experiences
Maxwell H. Brock:
I refuse to say anything twice. Repetition is death... When you repeat something, you are reliving a moment, wasting it, severing it from the other end of your life. I believe only in new impressions, new stimuli, new life!
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A Bucket of Blood - The Primacy of Art in Existence
Maxwell H. Brock:
I will talk to you of Art, for there is nothing else to talk about, for there is nothing else... Life is an obscure hobo bumming a ride on the omnibus of Art. Burn gas, buggies, and whip your sour cream of circumstance and hope, and go ahead and sleep your bloody heads off. Creation is, all else is not. What is not creation is graham crackers; let it all crumble to feed the creator; feed him that he may be satisifed. The Artist is, all others are not. A canvas is a canvas or a painting. A rock is a rock or a statue. A sound is a sound or is music. A preacher is a preacher, or an Artist. Where are John, Joe, Jake, Jim, Jerk? dead, dead, dead They were not born before they were born, they were not born... Where are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Ludwig? Alive! Alive! Alive! They were born! Bring on the multitudes with a multitude of fishes: feed them with the fishes for liver oil to nourish the Artist, stretch their skin upon an easel to give him canvas, crush their bones into a paste that he might mold them. Let them die, and by their miserable deaths become the clay within his hands that he might form an ashtray or an ark. Pray that you may be his diadem: gold, glory, paint, clay, that he might take you in his magic hands and wring from your marrow wonder. For all that is comes through the eye of the Artist. The rest are blind fish swimming in the cave of aloneness. Swim on you maudlin, muddling, maddened fools, and dream that one bright, sunny night the Artist will bait a hook and let you bite upon it. Bite hard and die!... in his stomach you are very close to immortality.
Quotes sourced from Wikiquote (© Wikiquote contributors), licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0. Modified for formatting/length.