I’m kind of hooked to the game of art and literature; my heroes are artists and writers.
No one here gets out alive.
A hero is someone who rebels, or seems to rebel, against the facts of existence and seems to conquer them, but obviously that can work at moments.
Nobody understands you better than yourself, but if someone tries to do it is because he loves you.
One shouldn’t take life so seriously. No one gets out alive anyway.
She dances in a ring of fire and throws off the challenge with a shrug.
I like a man who wears his soul on his face.
Love is a dream. Dreams are good, but do not be surprised if you wake up in tears.
The mask that you wore. My fingers would explore. Costume of control. Excitement soon unfolds.
We need great golden copulations.
Dreams are at once fruit and outcry against an atrophy of the senses...
I’m interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos, especially activity that appears to have no meaning. It seems to me to be the road toward freedom.
You’re all a bunch of fuckin’ slaves!
Films are collections of dead pictures which are given artificial insemination.
Look where we worship.
I’ll always be a word man, better than a bird man.
Do you think you’ll be the guy to make the queen of the angels sigh?
I don’t think there should even be a president, man. I think we should have total democracy.
Be always like the sea, than breaking up against cliffs it finds always the force to try again.
I rely on images of violence, which bring the shock of pain, to penetrate the barriers people erect and defend, not simple defenses; the phony facades people live behind. Blocking their perceptions from coming in, and blocking their feelings from coming put. There are two way I try to shatter those facades, or at least make a hole where something can get in, to let the trapped feelings out – one way is violence, pain. The other is eroticism.
The writer is just answering a series of unuttered questions.