Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois

You Will Hear Words Old And Spent And Useless Like Costumes Left Over From Yesterday's Parties.

The Art Of Living Is The Art Of Knowing How To Believe Lies. The Fearful Thing About It Is That, Not Knowing What Truth May Be, We Can Still Recognize Lies.

Hate Is Always A Clash Between Our Spirit And Someone Else's Body.

One Does Not Kill Oneself For Love Of A Woman, But Because Love - Any Love - Reveals Us In Our Nakedness, Our Misery, Our Vulnerability, Our Nothingness.

A Work Settles Nothing, Just As The Labor Of A Whole Generation Settles Nothing. Sons, And The Morrow, Always Start Afresh.