Everyone loathes his own country and countrymen if he is any sort of artist.
Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will-whatever we may think.
The artist's work constitutes the only satisfactory relationship he can have with his fellow men since he seeks his real friends among the dead and the unborn.
I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.
All artists today are expected to cultivate a little fashionable unhappiness.
Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.