However Depressed I May Be I Am

We Never Really Know What Stupidity Is Until We Have Experimented On Ourselves.

Civilization Is Paralysis.

If Instead Of A Figure You Put The Shadow Only Of A Person, You Have Found An Original Starting Point, That Strangeness Of Which You Have Calculated.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

A Critic In My House Sees Some Paintings. Greatly Perturbed, He Asks For My Drawings. My Drawings? Never! They Are My Letters, My Secrets.