Whatever May Happen The Sun Will Rise

Art = A Mad Search For Individualism.

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.

Stay Firmly In Your Path And Dare; Be Wild Two Hours A Day!

In Order To Produce Something New, You Have To Return To The Original Source, To The Childhood Of Mankind.

A Time Will Come When People Will Think I Am A Myth, Or Rather Something The Newspapers Have Made Up.