Thoughts of suicide have got me through many a bad night.
Fancy language, like poplin, too often conceals an eczema.
Once one's up against it, the precise manner of one's death has obviously small importance.
But sometimes it takes more courage to live than to shoot yourself.
There are places where the mind dies so that a truth which is its very denial may be born.
The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge.