That's What Art Is. You

If Life Is So Critical, If Anne Frank Could Die, If My Friend Could Die, Children Were As Vulnerable As Adults, And That Gave Me A Secret Purpose To My Work, To Make Them Live. Because I Wanted To Live. I Wanted To Grow Up.

I Believe There Is No Part Of Our Lives, Our Adult As Well As Child Life, When We're Not Fantasizing, But We Prefer To Relegate Fantasy To Children, As Though It Were Some Tomfoolery Only Fit For The Immature Minds Of The Young. Children Do Live In Fantasy And Reality; They Move Back And Forth Very Easily In A Way We No Longer Remember How To Do.

As A Child, I Felt That Books Were Holy Objects, To Be Caressed, Rapturously Sniffed, And Devotedly Provided For. I Gave My Life To Them. I Still Do. I Continue To Do What I Did As A Child; Dream Of Books, Make Books And Collect Books.

Mothers And Children Are Human Beings, And They Will Sometimes Do The Wrong Thing.

I Was Sickly As A Child And Gravitated To Books And Drawing. During My Early Teen Years, I Spent Hundreds Of Hours At My Window, Sketching Neighborhood Children At Play. I Sketched And Listened, And Those Notebooks Became The Fertile Field Of My Work Later On. There Is Not A Book I Have Written Or A Picture I Have Drawn That Does Not, In Some Way, Owe Them Its Existence.