Art Is Science Made Flesh.

Man Seeks To Escape Himself In Myth, And Does So By Any Means At His Disposal. Drugs, Alcohol, Or Lies. Unable To Withdraw Into Himself, He Disguises Himself. Lies And Inaccuracy Give Him A Few Moments Of Comfort.

Everything One Does In Life, Even Love, Occurs In An Express Train Racing Toward Death. To Smoke Opium Is To Get Out Of The Train While It Is Still Moving. It Is To Concern Oneself With Something Other Than Life Or Death.

The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison From Which The Works Of Art Escape.

Inspiration Arrived As A Result Of Profound Indolence... I Awoke With A Start And Witnessed As From A Seat In A Theatre, Three Acts Of A Potentially Awesome Play.

We Must Believe In Luck. For How Else Can We Explain The Success Of Those We Don't Like?