Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we’re opened, we’re red.
The paintings of Francis Bacon to my eye are very beautiful. The paintings of Bosch or Goya are to my eye very beautiful. I’ve also stood in front of those same paintings with people who’ve said, ‘let’s get on to the Botticellis as soon as possible.’ I have lingered, of course.
We’re too much ourselves. Afraid of letting go of what we are, in case we are nothing, and holding on so tight, we lose everything else.
Nothing else wounds so deeply and irreparably. Nothing else robs us of hope so much as being unloved by one we love.
That which is imagined can never be lost.
No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.