We are going to the moon that is not very far. Man has so much farther to go within himself.
But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.
We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.
It is a sign of great inner insecurity to be hostile to the unfamiliar.
My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.
Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.