The instinct of nearly all societies is to lock up anybody who is truly free. First, society begins by trying to beat you up. If this fails, they try to poison you. If this fails too, the finish by loading honors on your head.

One must be a living man and a posthumous artist.

The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.

When I write, I disturb. When I show a film, I disturb. When I exhibit my painting, I disturb, and I disturb if I don't. I have a knack for disturbing.

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.

Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.

The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.