So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labours, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
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"I'm not a writer, I'm a typist."
"No matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad."
"Yeah," I said, "but you're an artist. You don't believe in decency and honesty and gratitude. Where shall we eat?"
"I want to work in a place where I'm not afraid to be myself. I want to work in a place where I'm not afraid to be human. I want to work in a place where I'm not afraid to be alive."
"I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people who interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desi…"
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