Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence
is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.
He lies like a book. And he reads a lot of books.
Vice is basically the love of failure.
Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.
The first thing a proprietor learns, and painfully at that, is: Trust is fine, but control is better.
Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.
Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.
No art can possibly comfort HER then, even though art is credited with so many things, especially an ability to offer solace. Sometimes, of course, art creates the suffering in the first place.
After all, when you take a walk you're after solitude, and if the solitude won't come to you, you must go to it.
Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.