I Was Good And Bad, But Never

You Sense My Loneliness, (...) My Bitterness At Being Shut Out Of Life. My Bitterness That I'm Evil, That I Don't Deserve To Be Loved And Yet I Need Love Hungrily. My Horror That I Can Never Reveal Myself To Mortals. But These Things Don't Stop Me, Mother. I'm Too Strong For Them To Stop Me. As You Said Yourself Once, I Am Very Good At Being What I Am. These Things Merely Now And Then Make Me Suffer, That's All

In Spite Of All The Refinements Of Civilization That Conspired To Make Art--the Dizzying Perfection Of The String Quartet Or The Sprawling Grandeur Of Fragonard's Canvases--beauty Was Savage. It Was As Dangerous And Lawless As The Earth Had Been Eons Before Man Had One Single Coherent Thought In His Head Or Wrote Codes Of Conduct On Tablets Of Clay. Beauty Was A Savage Garden.

Oh, My Darling, Wish You Were Here! And My Dark Soul Is Happy Again, Because It Does Not Know How To Be Anything Else For Very Long, And Because The Pain Is A Deep Dark Sea In Which I Would Drown If I Did Not Sail My Little Craft Steadily Over The Surface, Steadily Towards A Sun Which Will Never Rise.

Writers, As They Gain Success, Feel Like Outsiders Because Writers Don't Come Together In Real Groups.

Artists Are Meant To Be Madmen, To Disturb And Shock Us.