...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.

...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.

And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion.

Solitude was corrupting me.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.