The Brits are ghastly. I never would accept a Brit. It would be like Laurence Olivier being happy getting a TV Times award.
Her singing voice is the sound of a body falling downstairs, and she speaks as if the hangman’s hands are at her throat.
But that’s life. Go first and be sure of a hard time.
The Smiths is right there, insubordinates of an accidental moment in days when there is no sign anywhere of independent artists or a disconnected view.
Miss Redmond is aging, and will never marry, and will die smelling of attics.
The arts translate life into film and literature and music and repeat a deadly poison: the monotonous in life must be protected at all costs.
Dismissal can be a secret form of arrogance, and I held this proudly against the Stones until the light shifted and I caught myself being utterly wrong.
I am sexually disinterested in either the male or the feel-male – yet I make this claim on knowing almost nothing about either.
I want fame now, not after I’m dead.
No matter how high-speed the train, the frozen reflection in the window is the collapsed countenance of your own face staring back at you, unchanged with the fast-track passing of miles, questioning, questioning, questioning, like a second you – an inner you that there is nowhere to run.
In a dream, I watch them spin and spin, calling out, pointing the way. These are the days when very few people collect records, so therefore whatever they might lay defines their secret heart.
I would never again assume that any figure of authority automatically held any intellectual distinction. I am unafraid.
Plainly I was not interested, being chosen but not chooser.
Music, you see, is the key.
Love at first sight, it may sound trite, but it’s true, you know.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and no singing artist seems to be in possession of the complete bundle.
He lives alone, unexcited, disinterested, world-weary and ungiving, yet it is this dry-as-dust approach that makes him fascinating.
And earth is the cruelest place you will never understand.
There is no self-discovery in a safe life.
You can only wonder how those who lived in the sheltered white wooden houses pass their time, never changing, always the same, off-center if not immersed in family and reproduction and just getting through. All aspects of the outside world must be deemed negative in order to justify your reason for not joining it.
I turn books around and around in my hands like precious jewels... staggered that someone compiled 600 pages of tiny handwritten words in an Antwerp turret in1751. To me, its the ultimate achievement, and when I hear of the Cancel Vultures trying to rewrite the classics... the room goes dark.