Perhaps I Know To What

The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame Or Success But Intoxication: That Is Why So Many Bad Artists Are Unable To Give It Up.

Man Seeks To Escape Himself In Myth, And Does So By Any Means At His Disposal. Drugs, Alcohol, Or Lies. Unable To Withdraw Into Himself, He Disguises Himself. Lies And Inaccuracy Give Him A Few Moments Of Comfort.

Beauty Makes One Lose One's Head. Poetry Is Born Of This Decapitation

If An Addict Who Has Been Completely Cured Starts Smoking Again He No Longer Experiences The Discomfort Of His First Addiction. There Exists, Therefore, Outside Alkaloids And Habit, A Sense For Opium, An Intangible Habit Which Lives On, Despite The Recasting Of The Organism. The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

All Good Music Resembles Something. Good Music Stirs By Its Mysterious Resemblance To The Objects And Feelings Which Motivated It.