Everything is dead while it lives.

I shall go so far that people will be seized with terror at the sight of each of my works of 'living' art.

I must live in my own excrement, breathe in my own poisonous sticky fumes. Yet I am a human being! I still am. Does no one think of that?

Bodies have their own light which they consume to live: they burn, they are not lit from the outside.

My mother is a very strange woman... She doesn't understand me in the least and doesn't love me much either. If she had either love or understanding she would be prepared to make sacrifices

Everything is dead while it lives.

Art cannot be modern. Art is primordially eternal.