For The Most Part, We, Who Could

It Is The Striving After Perfection That Makes One An Artist. It Is The Sense That One Is Imperfect, Unfulfilled, Unfinished. One Attempts By A Superhuman Effort To Fill The Gap, To Leap Over It, To Finish It In Another Medium. And One Creates A Third And Separate Thing: 'adventure Rarely Reaches Its Predetermined End. Columbus Never Reached China. But He Discovered America.

When One Is A Stranger To Oneself, Then One Is Estranged From Others, Too.

Fame Is A Kind Of Death Because It Arrests Life Around The Person In The Public Eye. If One Is Recognized Everywhere, One Begins To Feel Like Medusa. People Stop Their Normal Life And Actions And Freeze Into Staring Manikins. "we Can Never Catch People Or Life Unawares," As I Wrote To My Mother, In An Outburst Of Frustration. "it Is Always Looking At Us."

Only When One Is Connected To One's Own Core Is One Connected To Others, I Am Beginning To Discover. And, For Me, The Core, The Inner Spring, Can Best Be Refound Through Solitude.

Don't Wish Me Happiness - I Don't Expect To Be Happy It's Gotten Beyond That, Somehow. Wish Me Courage And Strength And A Sense Of Humor - I Will Need Them All.