That penny farthing hell you call your 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.

Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.