To Arrive Is To Be In Prison.

Hatred, Rancor, And The Spirit Of Vengeance Are Useless Baggage To The Artist. His Road Is Difficult Enough For Him To Cleanse His Soul Of Everything Which Could Make It More So.

Ever Since There Have Been Men, Man Has Given Himself Over To Too Little Joy. That Alone, My Brothers, Is Our Original Sin. I Should Believe Only In A God Who Understood How To Dance.

One Gets Into A State Of Creativity By Conscious Work.

Exactitude Is Not Truth.

Arrival = Prison, And The Artist Must Never Be A Prisoner.