God, I thought, what about the writer? The writer was the blood and bones and brains (or lack of same) in these creatures. The writer made their hearts beat, gave them words to speak, made them live or die, anything he wanted. And where was the writer? Who ever photographed the writer? Who applauded? But just as well and damn sure just as well: the writer was where he belonged: in some dark corner, watching.
Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell.
To do a dull thing with style – now that’s what I call art.
The poem has some value, believe me. It keeps you from going totally mad.
The cat is the beautiful devil.
People don’t need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn’t be.
Justice is everywhere and it’s working.
Love it or leave it.
The whole world is caught in her glance and at last the universe is magnificent.
People lack originality.
She’s mad, but she’s magic. There’s no lie in her fire.
Let’ em learn or let’ em die.
Dogs and angels are not very far apart.
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