An artist cannot speak about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.
The world owes its enchantment to these curious creatures and their fancies; but its multiple complicity rejects them. Thistledown spirits, tragic, heartrending in their evanescence, they must go blowing headlong to perdition.
I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.
Celebrity: I picture myself as a marble bust with legs to run everywhere.
I succeeded in bewitching a fair number and in being intoxicated with my mistakes.
All spiritual journeys are martyrdoms