If It Were Possible To Have A

Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois State.

At Great Periods You Have Always Felt, Deep Within You, The Temptation To Commit Suicide. You Gave Yourself To It, Breached Your Own Defenses. You Were A Child. The Idea Of Suicide Was A Protest Against Life; By Dying, You Would Escape This Longing For Death.

There Is An Art In Taking The Whiplash Of Suffering Full In The Face, An Art You Must Learn. Let Each Single Attack Exhaust Itself; Pain Always Makes Single Attacks, So That Its Bite May Be More Intense, More Concentrated. And You, While Its Fangs Are Implanted And Injecting Their Venom At One Spot, Do Not Forget To Offer It Another Place Where It Can Bite You, And So Relieve The Pain Of The First.

One Does Not Kill Oneself For Love Of A Woman, But Because Love - Any Love - Reveals Us In Our Nakedness, Our Misery, Our Vulnerability, Our Nothingness.

Misfortunes Cannot Suffice To Make A Fool Into An Intelligent Man.