What is art but the denial of life?

I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me.

I come closer to my desk as to a bulwark against life.

In order to understand, I destroyed myself.

Life is whatever we conceive it to be.

I carry my awareness of defeat like a banner of victory.

To say! To know how to say! To know how to exist via the written voice and the intellectual image! This is all that matters in life; the rest is men and women, imagined loves and factitious vanities, the wiles of our digestion and forgetfulness, people squirming — like worms when a rock is lifted — under the huge abstract boulder of the meaningless blue sky.