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.

Make sense who may. I switch off.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.

To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.