Today We Say All Art Is Political.

I Am Conscious About Myself And Everything, And Then Suddenly, Or Slowly, My Conscious Fades Out. Switches Off. And It's Not Existing, And That's A Marvelous Feeling. That From Existing, I Am Not Existing. And At That Moment, Nothing Can Happen To Me.

First, I Write Down All I Know About The Story, At Length And In Detail. Then I Sink The Iceberg And Let Some Of It Float Up Just A Little.

I'd Prostitute My Talents If It Would Further My Cause, Steal If There Was No Way Out, Killing My Friends Or Anyone Else If It Would Help My Art.

Art Lost Its Basic Creative Drive The Moment It Was Separated From Worship. It Severed An Umbilical Cord And Now Lives Its Own Sterile Life, Generating And Degenerating Itself. In Former Days The Artist Remained Unknown And His Work Was To The Glory Of God.

I Have Always Had The Ability To Attach My Demons To My Chariot.