A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Julian Burton: Maxwell H. Brock

Photos 

Quotes 

• [first lines] 

  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. 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 multitude, the 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. 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 and sunny night, some Artist will bait a hook and let you bite upon it! Bite hard - and die! In his stomach you are very close to immortality.

• 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!

• 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.

• Maxwell H. Brock : Walter has a clear mind. One day something will enter it, feel lonely... and leave again.

• Maxwell H. Brock : I'm proud to say my poetry is only understood by that minority which is aware.

  Yellow Door Patron : Aware of what?

  Naolia : Why, not of anything, stupid. Just aware!

• Maxwell H. Brock : [Addressing the patrons of The Yellow Door]  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!

  Maxwell H. Brock : [Crowd breaks into applause as Maxwell finishes his speech]  Bring me an espresso, Walter.

• Will : Have some breakfast, man.

  Walter Paisley : What're ya' having?

  Maxwell H. Brock : Some soy and wheat germ pancakes, organic guava nectar, calcium lactate and tomato juice, and garbanzo omelettes sprinkled with smoked yeast. Join us?

  Walter Paisley : No thanks... Sounds great, though!

• Maxwell H. Brock : I believe creative living. To be uncreative you might as well be in your grave - or in the Army.

  Walter Paisley : [Looking slightly puzzled, and amused]  They tried to draft me once. I couldn't pass the test.

• Leonard de Santis : I was just suggesting to Walter that he try his hand at free-form.

  Maxwell H. Brock : Why do you suggest anything to Walter? Are you the spokesman for society come to put your stifling finger in his eye?

• 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 tombs. And laughter rings from every time capsule in the star spangled firmament. And in the deep freeze, it is the children's hour. And know one knows that Duncan is murdered. And know one knows that Walter Paisley is born! Duncan knows. Tuesday's sunrise knows. Alley cats and garbage cans and steaming pavements and you and I and the nude descending a staircase and all such things with souls - we know that Walter Paisley's on!

• Maxwell H. Brock : Ring rubber bells! Beat cotton gongs! Strike silken cymbals!

• [last lines] 

  Maxwell H. Brock : [voice-over]  I suppose he would have called it "Hanging Man". His greatest work.

• Alice : Look at my sun tan, everybody.

  Maxwell H. Brock : Do we have to?

• Maxwell H. Brock : Mr. Leonard de Santis is afraid to have you come. You who buy his coffee and lure his tourists. You are the heart and soul and meat of The Yellow Door.

• Oscar : Man, if you're gonna be be an artist, you've gotta nudes. Nudes.

  Will : Right, right! Right. Ain't nobody an artist unless he does - nudes.

  Maxwell H. Brock : Will you get them outta here before we wind up in night court.

• Carla : Where have you been, Alice?

  Alice : I went up to Big Sur and looked for Henry Miller.

  Maxwell H. Brock : You didn't find him, I hope.

  Alice : No, he's in Europe.

• Maxwell H. Brock : You could make twenty-five thousand on these pieces alone.

  Walter Paisley : I thought you put money down?

  Maxwell H. Brock : I do! But, twenty-five thou?