[to Be An Artist,] This Desire To

Writers Know That Sometimes Things Are There In The Drawer For Decades Before They Finally Come Out And You Are Capable Of Writing About Them.

I Wept When The Muse Ulla Bent Over Me. Blinded By Tears I Could Not Prevent Her From Kissing Me, I Could Not Prevent The Muse From Giving Me That Terrible Kiss. All Of You Who Have Ever Been Kissed By The Muse Will Surely Understand That Oskar, Once Branded By That Kiss, Was Condemned To Take Back The Drum He Had Rejected Years Before, The Drum He Had Buried In The Sand Of Sapse Cemetery.

Cemeteries Have Always Had A Lure For Me. They Are Well Kept, Free From Ambiguity, Logical, Virile, And Alive. In Cemeteries You Can Summon Up Courage And Arrive At Decisions, In Cemeteries Life Takes On Distinct Contours -- I Am Not Referring To The Borders Of The Graves -- And If You Will, A Meaning.

Where Man Had Been, In Every Place He Left, Garbage Remained. Even In His Pursuit Of The Ultimate Truth And Quest For His God, He Produced Garbage. By His Garbage, Which Lay Stratum Upon Stratum, He Could Always - One Had Only To Dig - Be Known. For More Long-lived Than Man Is His Refuse. Garbage Alone Lives After Him.

If Jesus Had Been A Hunchback, They Could Hardly Have Nailed Him To The Cross.