When you are writing, you are - from society's point of view - only producing the first version which will then be processed and recycled.

Photographs trade simultaneously on the prestige of art and the magic of the real.

War tears, rends. War rips open, eviscerates. War scorches. War dismembers. War ruins.

Shouting has never made me understand anything.

You know that you can't make references to the Classics any longer and less and less to the English classics even.

Art is seduction, not rape.

In NY sensuality completely turns into sexuality - no objects for the senses to respond to, no beautiful river, houses, people. Awful smells of the street, and dirt... Nothing except eating, if that, and the frenzy of the bed.