Knowing that you're crazy doesn't make the crazy things stop happening.

Who but a brazen crazy person would go one-on-one with blank paper or canvas armed with nothing but ideas?

Writing was a spiritual exercise for my father, the only thing he really believed in.

Fear that I was very different from everyone else. Fear that deep down inside I was a shallow fraud, that after the revolution or after Jesus came down to straighten everything out, everyone from hippies to hard-hats would unfold and blossom into the beautiful people they were while I would remain a gnarled little wart in the corner, oozing bile and giving off putrid smells.

Art is lunging forward without certainty about where you are going or how to get there, being open to and dependent on what luck, the paint, the typo, the dissonance, give you. Without art, you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.

Colds, ulcers, flu, and cancer are things we get. Schizophrenia is something we are.

It's regrets that make painful memories. When I was crazy I did everything just right.