Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape.
Panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive.
There is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit.
A cat’s rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering.
My relationships with my cats has saved me from a deadly, pervasive ignorance.
Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.
Quien sabe? Not me. The older I get the less I sabe, the less wisdom, maturity and caution I have.
The only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do.
Artists to my mind are the real architects of change.
There is no line between the ‘real world’ and ‘world of myth and symbol.’ Objects, sensations, hit with the impact of hallucination.
I am trying like Klee, to create something that will have a life of its own, that can put me in real danger, a danger which I willingly take on myself.
Love is a haunting melody that I have never mastered, and I fear I never will.
Like Spain, I am bound to the past.
It’s the little touches that make a future solid enough to destroy.
Whether you like it or not, you are committed to the human endeavor. I cannot ally myself with such a purely negative goal as avoidance of suffering. Suffering is a chance you take by the fact of being alive.
Like all pure creatures, cats are practical.
In my writing I am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and I see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed.
In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality.
Language is a virus from outer space.
A functioning police state needs no police.