It Is Not Your Paintings I Like,

There Is In Me An Anarchy And Frightful Disorder. Creating Makes Me Die A Thousand Deaths, Because It Means Making Order, And My Entire Being Rebels Against Order. But Without It I Would Die, Scattered To The Winds.

Where There Is No Hope, We Must Invent It.

Once One's Up Against It, The Precise Manner Of One's Death Has Obviously Small Importance.

The Rebel Can Never Find Peace. He Knows What Is Good And, Despite Himself, Does Evil. The Value Which Supports Him Is Never Given To Him Once And For All - He Must Fight To Uphold It, Unceasingly.

The Most Elementary Form Of Rebellion, Paradoxically , Expresses An Aspiration For Order .