Fame Is A Kind Of Death Because

I Find There Is A Quality To Being Alone That Is Incredibly Precious. Life Rushes Back Into The Void, Richer, More Vivid, Fuller Than Before.

Only With Winter-patience Can We Bring The Deep-desired, Long-awaited Spring.

I Think Best With A Pencil In My Hand.

Everything Today Has Been Heavy And Brown. Bring Me A Unicorn To Ride About The Town.

The Artist Knows He Must Be Alone To Create; The Writer, To Work Out His Thoughts; The Musician, To Compose; The Saint, To Pray. But Women Need Solitude In Order To Find Again The True Essence Of Themselves.