I Do Not Believe In The Art

My Art Is Rooted In A Single Reflection: Why Am I Not As Others Are? ... My Art Gives Meaning To My Life.

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

Without Anxiety And Illness I Would Have Been Like A Ship Without A Rudder.

My Whole Life Has Been Spent Walking By The Side Of A Bottomless Chasm, Jumping From Stone To Stone. Sometimes I Try To Leave My Narrow Path And Join The Swirling Mainstream Of Life, But I Always Find Myself Drawn Inexorably Back Towards The Chasm's Edge, And There I Shall Walk Until The Day I Finally Fall Into The Abyss.

My Father Was Temperamentally Nervous And Obsessively Religious—to The Point Of Psychoneurosis. From Him I Inherited The Seeds Of Madness. The Angels Of Fear, Sorrow, And Death Stood By My Side Since The Day I Was Born.