Fear is a place where you just tell the truth

We are all our own graveyards, I believe; we squat amongst the tombs of the people we were. If we're healthy, every day is a celebration, a Day of the Dead, in which we give thanks for the lives that we lived, and if we are neurotic we brood and mourn and wish that the past was still present.

The paintings of Francis Bacon to my eye are very beautiful. The paintings of Bosch or Goya are to my eye very beautiful. I've also stood in front of those same paintings with people who've said, 'let's get on to the Botticellis as soon as possible.' I have lingered, of course.

The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive.

The extraordinary's the norm.

How many human eyes...had snatched glimpses of their secret anatomies, down the passage of years?

Funny that. We live in islands of Hours and we never seem to have time enough for anything.