I am a cat. As yet I have no name
London is a city that offers all kinds of temptations, and whenever I go for a walk I discover things that I would like to bring back as souvenirs. But my resources are very limited. I cannot buy anything, and I make a point of taking my walks a good distance from these riches.
On a charcoal kiln a vine keeps climbing, while being burned to death.
Some say that life has no form, that it is extremely diffuse. I think I can agree with them. ... A life without conclusions is painful.
An artist is a person who lives in the triangle which remains after the angle which we may call common sense has been removed from this four-cornered world.
I believe that words uttered in passion contain a greater living truth than do those words which express thoughts rationally conceived. It is blood that moves the body. Words are not meant to stir the air only: they are capable of moving greater things.
From this observed behavior a major psychological truth about this race of forked destroyers may be deduced: that, just as nature abhors a vacuum, "mankind abhors equality."
Into the field of
The red setting sun!
The artist, even when he imitates nature, always feels himself to be not a slave but a demigod.
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