Art Is Accusation, Expression, Passion. Art Is

Melancholy Has Ceased To Be An Individual Phenomenon, An Exception. It Has Become The Class Privilege Of The Wage Earner, A Mass State Of Mind That Finds Its Cause Wherever Life Is Governed By Production Quotas.

I Did Not Volunteer For The Waffen Ss, But Was, As Were Thousands Of My Year Group, Conscripted. I Did Not Then Know As A 17-year-old That It Was A Criminal Unit. I Thought It Was An Elite Unit.

What Does A River Like The Vistula Carry Away With It? Everything That Goes To Pieces: Wood, Glass, Pencils, Pacts ... Chairs, Bones, And Sunsets Too. What Had Long Been Forgotten Rose To Memory, Floating On Its Back Or Stomach, With The Help Of The Vistula.

I Don't Believe In Writing At Night Because It Comes Too Easily. When I Read It In The Morning It's Not Good. I Need Daylight To Begin. Between Nine And Ten O'clock I Have A Long Breakfast With Reading And Music.

Today I Know That All Things Are Watching, That Nothing Goes Unseen, That Even Wallpaper Has A Better Memory Than Human Beings.