My Paintings Are Reflections Of My Own

I Remember, In Hot Floods, The Way He Slept, Still As Death, With His Face Washed Flat, Stony As A Carved Tomb And Exquisite. His Weakness And His Ravening Bitter Needs Were Terrible, And Beautiful, And Irresistible As An Earthquake. He Scalded Or Smothered Anyone He Needed, But His Needing And The Hurt That It Caused Me Were The Most Life I Have Ever Had. Remember What A Poor Thing I Have Always Been And Forgive Me.

Asked Why They Wanted To Fight, The Young Women Said They Enjoyed It, Just As Some Men And Boys Do.

I Do Consider The Human Capacity For Violence Is The Central Issue Of The Social Contract. In Boxing We Have A Peculiarly Civilized Form, In That Boxers Don't Screech And Holler. They Don't Use Weapons. All Of This Seems To Me Quite Amazing, Because It Is So Disciplined, So Controlled. It's Ritualized, But Absolutely Genuine. And The Cultural Structure Built Around That Ritual Is Absolutely Fascinating To Me. And It Seems To Me That Boxing Is One Of Those Structures That Is Designed To Promote Harmony. I Think That It Is A Stove That Contains That Fire In Us And Makes It Safe And Useful.

My Worst Is All Out In The Open. It Makes It Necessary For People To Tell You About Themselves.

There Are Parts Of Texas Where A Fly Lives Ten Thousand Years And A Man Can't Die Soon Enough. Time Gets Strange There From Too Much Sky, Too Many Miles From Crack To Crease In The Flat Surface Of The Land.