I Want Faith; But I Am Faithless

My Dream Of Happiness: A Quiet Spot By The Jamaican Seashore . . . Hearing The Wind Sob With The Beauty And The Tragedy Of Everything. Sitting Under An Almond Tree, With The Leaf Spread Over Me Like An Umbrella.

If They Say I Am Inconsistent Let Them Say It, For It Is True, Because Inconsistency Is A Part Of Living

I Had Now Made About 45 Pictures, But What Had I Become? I Knew All Too Well: A Phallic Symbol. All Over The World I Was, As A Name And Personality, Equated With Sex.

I Felt Like An Impostor, Taking All That Money For Reciting Ten Or Twelve Lines Of Nonsense A Day.

I Enter A Whorehouse With The Same Interest As I Do The British Museum Or The Metropolitan - In The Same Spirit Of Curiosity. Here Are The Works Of Man, Here Is An Art Of Man, Here Is The Eternal Pursuit Of Gold And Pleasure. I Couldn't Be More Sincere. This Doesn't Mean That If I Go To La Scala In Milan To Hear Carmen I Want To Get Up On The Stage And Participate. I Do Not. Neither Do I Always Participate In A Fine Representative National Whorehouse - But I Must See It As A Spectacle, An Offering, A Symptom Of A Nation.