If a story is only what it seems to be about, then somehow the author has failed.
If something doesn’t creep into a drawing that you’re not prepared for, you might as well not have drawn it.
I don’t think anything might have been. What is, is.
Such excess of passion is quite out of fashion.
More is happening out there than we are aware of. It is possibly due to some unknown direful circumstance.
I should like a parsley sandwich. To the best of my knowledge they are not in season.
All the things you can talk about in anyone’s work are the things that are least important.
I realize that homosexuality is a serious problem for anyone who is – but then, of course, heterosexuality is a serious problem for anyone who is, too. And being a man is a serious problem and being a woman is, too. Lots of things are problems.
I have given up considering happiness as relevant.
When they answered the bell on that wild winter night. There was no one expected – and no one in sight.
I do remember with great pleasure, if not terribly clearly, a play by Richard Foreman with music by Stanley Silverman called Hotel For Criminals, which I saw in a sinisterly suitable mansion in the cultured wilds of western Massachusetts in the summer of 1974, and which could be described as based loosely on Fantomas.
I tend to think life is pastiche: I’m not sure what it’s a pastiche of – we haven’t found out yet.
You never really choose anything. It’s all presented to you, and then you have alternatives.
As someone once said, originality is not taking from somebody else. It’s when nobody can take it from you and repeat it.
A situation comes up, and either you do this or that, or maybe a third alternative comes up. But you simply do not choose. You never really choose anything. It’s all presented to you, and then you have alternatives.
More and more, I think you should have no expectations and do everything for its own sake. That way you won’t be hit in the head quite so frequently.
Indoor cats don’t lose their wildness, which is one reason I am so fascinated by them. They seem to retain all their jungly qualities no matter what.
We spend all our lives trying to avoid reality in one way or another. I’ve always had a rather strong sense of unreality. I feel other people exist in a way I don’t.
I do like rocks. I had a terrible trauma this week: I didn’t know what had become of my favorite rock. And I thought, Oh my God, I can’t live. Fortunately, it was found.
I look like a real person, but underneath I am not real at all. It’s just a fake persona. That’s why cats are so wonderful. They can’t talk. They have these mysterious lives that are only half-connected to you. We have no idea what goes on in their tiny minds.