We Are All Born Crazy. Some Remain

Words And Images Run Riot In My Head, Pursuing, Flying, Clashing, Merging, Endlessly. But Beyond This Tumult There Is A Great Calm, And A Great Indifference, Never Really To Be Troubled By Anything Again.

Every Word Is Like An Unnecessary Stain On Silence And Nothingness.

We Could Have Saved Sixpence. We Could Have Saved Fivepence. But At What Cost?

Suffering Is The Main Condition Of The Artistic Experience.

That Desert Of Loneliness And Recrimination That Men Call Love.