If Only Art Were As Rare As

At First, When An Idea, A Poem, Or The Desire To Write Takes Hold Of You, Work Is A Pleasure, A Delight, And Your Enthusiasm Knows No Bounds. But Later On You Work With Difficulty, Doggedly, Desperately. For Once You Have Committed Yourself To A Particular Work, Inspiration Changes Its Form And Becomes An Obsession, Like A Love-affair… Which Haunts You Night And Day! Once At Grips With A Work, We Must Master It Completely Before We Can Recover Our Idleness.

My Queerness Is Not A Vice, Is Not Deliberate, And Harms No One.

Fashion: The Search For A New Absurdity.

If I Had One Ambition It Was To Make My Life Itself Into A Poem.

The Past Is Such A Subtle Thing. [but] In The End, Nothing Else Exists, Everything Is Made Of The Past, Even The Future.