To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.

Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.

That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.

I speak for an art ... weary of its puny exploits, weary of pretending to be able, of being able, of doing a little better the same old thing, of going a little further along a dreary road.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.