As Long As I Have Health And

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than The Sound Of The Guitar.

I Am Gay On The Outside, Especially Among My Own Folk (i Count Poles My Own); But Inside Something Gnaws At Me; Some Presentiment, Anxiety, Dreams - Or Sleeplessness - Melancholy, Indifference - Desire For Life, And The Next Instant, Desire For Death; Some Kind Of Sweet Peace, Some Kind Of Numbness, Absent-mindedness.

When One Does A Thing, It Appears Good, Otherwise One Would Not Write It. Only Later Comes Reflection, And One Discards Or Accepts The Thing. Time Is The Best Censor, And Patience A Most Excellent Teacher.

It's A Huge Carthusian Monastery, Stuck Down Between Rocks And Sea, Where You May Imagine Me, Without White Gloves Or Hair Curling, As Pale As Ever, In A Cell With Such Doors As Paris Never Had For Gates. The Cell Is The Shape Of A Tall Coffin, With An Enormous Dusty Vaulting, A Small Window... Bach, My Scrawls And Waste Paper - Silence - You Could Scream - There Would Still Be Silence. Indeed, I Write To You From A Strange Place.

Concerts Are Never Real Music, You Have To Give Up The Idea Of Hearing In Them All The Most Beautiful Things Of Art.