Now stiff on a pillar with a phallic air nelson stylites in Trafalgar square reminds the British what once they were.

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

People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.

Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.

A woman's best love letters are always written to the man she is betraying.

A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.

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