The Artist Is A Member Of The

Boys Do Not Grow Up Gradually. They Move Forward In Spurts Like The Hands Of Clocks In Railway Stations.

In The Dream Of Approaching Forty I Saw Myself As About To Die And Realized That I Was No Longer Myself, But A Creature Inhabited Entirely By Parasites, As A Caterpillar Is Occupied By The Grubs Of The Ichneumon Fly. Gin, Whisky, Sloth, Fear, Guilt, Tobacco, Had Made Themselves My Inquilines; Alcohol Sloshed About Within, While Tendrils Of Melon And Vine Grew Out Of Ears And Nostrils; My Mind Was A Worn Gramophone Record, My True Self Was Such A Ruin As To Seem Non-existent, And All This Had Happened In The Last Three Years.

It Is A Consolation Of Human Life That The Sick Forget What It Is Like To Feel Well, Or The Miserable To Be Happy.

The Books I Haven't Written Are Better Than The Books Other People Have.

Everything Is A Dangerous Drug Except Reality Which Is Unendurable.