Art Is Like A Lover Whom You

I Feel Physically Ill If I Don't Make Work, I Don't Create. I Don't Feel Very Good. I Don't Feel Right, I Feel Wrong.

I've Worked Really Hard. I've Made Three Pieces Of Seminal Art In My Life. If I Died Tomorrow, I'd Be Remembered For Making Them. There Are A Lot Of Artists Who, No Matter How Hard They Work In Their Lives, Will Never Make Anything Seminal.

The Idea That I'm Going To Have To Sit Down To Write Some Fiction Where I'm Going To Have To Think Of A Plot Would Really Scare Me, Because It Would Come Out A Mess.

Criticism On My Works Is Like This: You've Worked Hard All Of Your Life, You Went To Oxford, And You've Done This And That, And You're An Art Critic. Your Job Is To Unravel The "secret" Or Whatever, And You Come Across An Entity Like Me. It's Going To Piss You Off. Because There's No Great Secret, What You See Is What You Get, And Anyone Can Understand What I'm Doing. So, It's Almost Like I Make This Critic-person Redundant, Just By My Attitude, And They Resent Me For That.

There's So Much Stuff Said About Me That's Not True, So Now If Something Is Hurtful And Wrong, I Send An E-mail Or Letter Immediately, Saying, This Is Not True.