We Speak Of The Masculine And The

Poverty Is The Great Reality. That Is Why The Artist Seeks It.

Writers Do Not Live One Life, They Live Two. There Is The Living And Then There Is The Writing. There Is The Second Tasting, The Delayed Reaction.

The Period Without The Diary Remains An Ordeal. Every Evening I Want My Diary As One Wants Opium.

The Struggle To Emerge Out Of The Past, Clean Of Memories; The Inadequacy Of Our Hearts To Cut Life Into Separate And Final Portions; The Pain Of This Constant Ambivalence And Interrelation Of Emotions; The Hunger For Frontiers Against Which We Might Learn As Upon Closed Doors Before We Proceed Forward; The Struggle Against Diffusion, New Beginnings, Against Finality In Acts Without Finality Or End, In Our Cursedly Repercussive Being.

I Want To Make My Own Discoveries…….penetrate The Evil Which Attracts Me