The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison

Compromise Yourself. Obscure Your Own Trail.

There's No Such Thing As Love; Only Proof Of Love.

When We Awake It Is The Animal, The Plant, That Thinks In Us. Primitive Thought Without The Least Disguise. We See A Terrible Universe, Because We See Clearly. A Little Later, Intelligence Introduces Its Impeding Contrivances. It Brings The Little Toys Which Man Invents In Order To Hide The Void. It Is Then That We Think We Are Seeing Clearly. We Attribute Our Uneasiness To The Miasmas Of The Brain As It Passes From Dream To Reality.

If A Hermit Lives In A State Of Ecstasy, His Lack Of Comfort Becomes The Height Of Comfort. He Must Relinquish It.

The Prettiest Dresses Are Worn To Be Taken Off.