I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

All artists today are expected to cultivate a little fashionable unhappiness.

I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.

Prohibitions create the desire they were intended to cure.

Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?