My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure.

In my dreams I sleep with everybody.

America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.

I miss the animal buoyancy of New York, the animal vitality. I did not mind that it had no meaning and no depth.

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.

Someone told me the delightful story of the crusader who put a chastity belt on his wife and gave the key to his best friend for safekeeping, in case of his death. He had ridden only a few miles away when his friend, riding hard, caught up with him, saying 'You gave me the wrong key!

... and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.