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

I was in love with everything- I wanted to look with love at the angry people so that their eyes would be forced to respond; and I wanted to bring gifts to the envious and tell them that I am worthless.

I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds.

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

No erotic work of art is filth if it is artistically significant; it is only turned into filth through the beholder if he is filthy.

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?

I don't know whether there is anyone else at all who remembers my noble father with such sadness