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.

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.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Light black. From pole to pole.

All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.

How time flies when one has fun!

I had little talent for happiness.