It Is Not Opium Which

I Cannot Conceive Any Work Of Art As Having A Separate Existence From Life Itself

I Am A Man By Virtue Of My Hands And My Feet, My Belly, My Heart Of Meat, My Stomach Whose Knots Reunite Me To The Putrefaction Of Life.

Without Sarcasm I Sink Into Chaos.

All Writing Is Garbage. People Who Come Out Of Nowhere To Try And Put Into Words Any Part Of What Goes On In Their Minds Are Pigs.

I Do Not Like Detached Creation. Neither Can I Conceive Of The Mind As Detached From Itself. Each Of My Works, Each Diagram Of Myself, Each Glacial Flowering Of My Inmost Soul Dribbles Over Me.