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It occurred to us that she and the girls read secret signs of misery in cloud formations, that despite the discrepancy in their ages something timeless communicated itself between them, as though she were advising the girls in her mumbling Greek, “Don’t waste your time on life.”

and the love he felt at that moment, truer than all subsequent loves because it never had to survive real life, still plagued him, even now in the desert, with his looks and health wasted. “You never know what’ll set the memory off,” he told us. “A baby’s face. A bell on a cat’s collar. Anything.”

We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together. We knew that the girls were our twins, that we all existed in space like animals with identical skins, and that they knew everything about us though we couldn’t fathom them at all.

“Basically, what we have here is a dreamer. Somebody out of touch with reality. When she jumped, she probably thought she’d fly.”

“What are you doing here, honey? You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets.” And it was then Cecilia gave orally what was to be her only form of suicide note, and a useless one at that, because she was going to live: “Obviously, Doctor,” she said, “you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.”

Thc very best of all things is completely beyond your reach: not to havc been born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best thing for you is-to meet an early death.'

Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: the artistic force of the whole of nature, to the most intense blissful satisfaction of the original Unity, reveals itself here in the shudder of intoxication.

'What gives tragedy its curious uplifting momentum,' he says in World as Will and Representation, II, 'is the dawning of the knowledge that the world, that life can offer no real satisfaction and as a result docs not merit our devotion: this is the essence of the tragic spirit-it leads accordingly to resignation.

for all life is founded on appearance, art, illusion, optic, the necessity of the perspectival and of error

where must tragedy have originated? Perhaps in joy, in strength, in overflowing health, in an excess of abundance? And what then is the meaning in physiological terms of that madness from which tragic and comic art grew, the Dionysian madness?

I told him that pot was supposed to be for writing poetry, not fooling around. But all we did was laugh.

“You don’t shoot up and you’re not a lesbian. What do you actually do?”

To me, Robert and I were irrevocably entwined, like Paul and Elisabeth, the sister and brother in Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles. We played similar games, declared the most obscure object treasure, and often puzzled friends and acquaintances by our indefinable devotion.



will forever regret not reading this book sooner

“We’re still us,” he said. He held my hand and I fell asleep on his shoulder on the subway home. Sadly, the new picture of the two of us was lost, but the picture of myself astride the pony, alone and slightly defiant, remains.

“Nobody sees as we do, Patti,” he said again. Whenever he said things like that, for a magical space of time, it was as if we were the only two people in the world.

We promised that we’d never leave one another again, until we both knew we were ready to stand on our own. And this vow, through everything we were yet to go through, we kept. “Chelsea Hotel,” I told the driver, fumbling through my pockets for change, not completely certain I could pay him.

Both of us had given ourselves to others. We vacillated and lost everyone, but we had found one another again. We wanted, it seemed, what we already had, a lover and a friend to create with, side by side. To be loyal, yet be free.

Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.

“I open doors, I close doors,” he wrote. He loved no one, he loved everyone. He loved sex, he hated sex. Life is a lie, truth is a lie. His thoughts ended with a healing wound. “I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together.” His manifesto as an artist.

In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves? And what was the ultimate goal? To have one’s work caged in art’s great zoos—the Modern, the Met, the Louvre? I craved honesty, yet found dishonesty in myself. Why commit to art? For self-realization, or for itself? It seemed indulgent to add to the glut unless one offered illumination.

“At least they’ll never get it,” he said. “Who are they?” I asked. “Anyone who isn’t us,” he answered.

ik that all the people who like greek or greek mythology are "crazy" but never thought of crazy in a literal psychotic way until I started reading this but NO COMPLAINS IM LOVING IT