From 1968 On, I Was Pretty Much

It Is Not That Love Sometimes Makes Mistakes, But That It Is, Essentially, A Mistake. We Fall In Love When Our Imagination Projects Nonexistent Perfections On To Another Person. One Day The Phantasmagoria Vanishes, And With It Love Dies.

There Is No Articulate Resonance. The Common Problem, I Suppose, Is To Have More To Say Than Vocabulary And Syntax Can Bear. That Is Why I Am Hunting In These Desiccated Streets. The Smoke Hides The Sky's Variety, Stains Consciousness, Covers The Holocaust With Something Safe And Insubstantial. It Protects From Greater Flame. It Indicates Fire, But Obscures The Source. This Is Not A Useful City. Very Little Here Approaches Any Eidolon Of The Beautiful.

I Think A 23-page Ordinary Comic Is An Investment For The Artist, But If You're Doing Something 60 To 104 Pages, That's A Really Big Investment For An Artist. So Unless You've Got Someone Who Wants To Pay You While You're Doing It Or Up Front, It's Kind Hard To Get Someone To Do That With You, Unless You're The Artist Yourself.

Power Is All. Another Falsification; I Do Not Tell How I Gain Or Maintain It. I Only Record The Ginger Stroll Through The Vaguely Fetid Garden Of Its Rewards.

But I Realized Something. About Art. And Psychiatry. They're Both Self-perpetuating Systems. Like Religion. All Three Of Them Promise You A Sense Of Inner Worth And Meaning, And Spend A Lot Of Time Telling You About The Suffering You Have To Go Through To Achieve It.