The prisoner is not the one who has commited a crime, but the one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over.

I had a microscopic eye for the blemish, for the grain of ugliness which to me constituted the sole beauty of the object.

We should not stop to reflect, compare, analyze, possess, but flow on and through, endlessly, like music.

It was only in my forties that I started feeling young.

A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will.

For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needs to be blown to smithereens. Not one of us is intact, and yet we have in us all the continents and the seas between the continents and the birds of the air. We are going to put it down ― the evolution of this world which has died but which has not been buried.

We don't trust our five senses; we rely on our critics and educators, all of whom are failures in the realm of creation.