... the unarmed power of naked truth.

Art is unthinkable without risk and spiritual self-sacrifice.

Art always serves beauty, and beauty is the joy of possessing form, and form is the key to organic life since no living thing can exist without it.

But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?

About dreams. It is usually taken for granted that you dream of something that has made a particularly strong impression on you during the day, but it seems to me it´s just the contrary. Often it´s something you paid no attention to at the time -- a vague thought that you didn´t bother to think out to the end, words spoken without feeling and which passed unnoticed -- these are the things that return at night, clothed in flesh and blood, and they become the subjects of dreams, as if to make up for having been ignored during waking hours.

Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.

Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.