I see myself as Rhoda, not Mary Tyler Moore.

Every artist is an unhappy lover.

Art is brief. (Not in a temporal sense.) [...] Words are for concealment. Art is concealment.

Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.

Love is the perception of individuals. Love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real.

Upon the demon-ridden pilgrimage of human life, what next I wonder.

There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.