No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.

The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.