I conclude that there is as much sense in nonsense as there is nonsense in sense.

And to all others in this story profound shooms of lip music brrrrrr. And they can kiss my sharries.

I was always on my oddy knocky.

We are supposed to be the children of Seth; but Seth is too much of an effete nonentity to deserve ancestral regard. No, we are the sons of Cain, and with violence can be associated the attacks on sound, stone, wood and metal that produced civilization.

I think art is sublimated libido. You can’t be a eunuch priest, and you can’t be a eunuch artist.

I see what is right and approve, but I do what is wrong.

Blessed tree and blessed birds, that were to be neither saved nor damned.