The Artist Must Know How Far To

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

When We Awake It Is The Animal, The Plant, That Thinks In Us. Primitive Thought Without The Least Disguise. We See A Terrible Universe, Because We See Clearly. A Little Later, Intelligence Introduces Its Impeding Contrivances. It Brings The Little Toys Which Man Invents In Order To Hide The Void. It Is Then That We Think We Are Seeing Clearly. We Attribute Our Uneasiness To The Miasmas Of The Brain As It Passes From Dream To Reality.

I've Always Preferred Mythology To History. History Is Truth That Becomes An Illusion. Mythology Is An Illusion That Becomes Reality.

The Skin Of All Of Us Is Responsive To Gypsy Songs And Military Marches.

After You Have Written A Thing And You Reread It, There Is Always The Temptation To Fix It Up, To Improve It, To Remove Its Poison, Blunt Its Sting.