Art Is Interested In Life

I Have Been Writing In Spurts, Bit By Bit. It Is Incredibly Difficult. Everything Is Corroded, Broken, Dismantled; Everything Is Covered With Hardened Layers Of Accumulated Insensitivity, Deafness, Entrenched Routine. It Is Disgusting.

Salvation Lies Not In The Faithfulness To Forms, But In The Liberation From Them.

Don't Be Upset. Don't Listen To Me. I Only Meant That I Am Jealous Of A Dark, Unconscious Element, Something Irrational, Unfathomable. I Am Jealous Of Your Toilet Articles, Of The Drops Of Sweat On Your Skin, Of The Germs In The Air You Breathe Which Could Get Into Your Blood And Poison You. And I Am Jealous Of Komarovsky, As If He Were An Infectious Disease. Someday He Will Take You Away, Just As Certainly As Death Will Someday Separate Us. I Know This Must Seem Obscure And Confused, But I Can't Say It More Clearly. I Love You Madly, Irrationally, Infinitely.

Art Is Unthinkable Without Risk And Spiritual Self-sacrifice.

Everything Established, Settled, Everything To Do With Home And Order And The Common Ground, Has Crumbled Into Dust And Has Been Swept Away In The General Upheaval And Reorganization Of The Whole Of Society. The Whole Human Way Of Life Has Been Destroyed And Ruined. All That's Left Is The Bare, Shivering Human Soul, Stripped To The Last Shred, The Naked Force Of The Human Psyche For Which Nothing Has Changed Because It Was Always Cold And Shivering And Reaching Out To Its Nearest Neighbor, As Cold And Lonely As Itself.