The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.

The impulse to dream was slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing.

I’d like to see the bay cleaned up before I die.

Men simply copied the realities of their hearts when they built prisons.

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.

It’s becoming very much like 1979 again.

Don’t leave inferences to be drawn when evidence can be presented.

Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.

The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.