“Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear”

With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.

People are bloody ignorant apes.

Better hope deferred than none.

All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

There’s never an end for the sea.

My mistakes are my life.

There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

I gave up before birth.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Artists are here to disturb the peace.

Silence is one of the great arts of conversation.

Art is the sensuous presentation of ideas.

The art of concentration is a continual letting go. We let go of what is inessential or distracting. We let go of a thought or a feeling, not because we are afraid of it or because we can’t bear to acknowledge it as a part of our experience; but, because it is UNNECESSARY.

A record deal doesn’t make you an artist; you make yourself an artist

The very thought of you has my legs spread apart like an easel with a canvas begging for art.

It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill.

Love would never be a promise of a rose garden unless it is showered with a light of faith, water of sincerity, and an art of passion.