The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison

The Audience Bursts Into Laughter. With The Tragic Gag I Don't Expect The Audience To Laugh (if They Do, I Have Failed) But I Expect A Black Silence From Them That Is Almost As Violent: As Laughter.

We Are In A Period Of Such Individualism That One No Longer Speaks Of Disciples; One Speaks Of Thieves.

Keep Braiding One's Wavelengths Back Into Oneself. That Way They Gain All The More External Power And Surround Us With A Huge Affective And Protective Zone. Don't Talk About This. Never Talk About Our Secret Methods. If We Talk About Them, They Stop Working.

The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.