The more I become decomposed, the more sick and fragile I am, the more I become an artist.

The sunflower is mine, in a way.

Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.

Your profession is not what brings home your weekly paycheck, your profession is what you're put here on earth to do, with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.

If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.

Art is to console those who are broken by life.

How lovely yellow is! It stands for the sun.

I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart.

If one truly loves nature one finds beauty everywhere.

I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.

For great things do not done just happen by impulse but are a succession of small things linked together.

…little people like me have to keep the true story alive. That way, when the revolution ends, and people come looking for the history, we can say, ‘Here it is – we kept it for you.

Also, in the dismal Cold Waste, any man treasures illusions, though knowing them almost certainly to be such.

In a suspended psychic state, writers cull words and symbols from the mystical world of memory, imagination, and intuition.

You’d be hard-pressed to find an old person who would trade in a true friend for any amount of popularity or fame. You'd also be hard-pressed to find a young person who wouldn't.

You have to stay hydrated when you have crying scenes.

I was offered a choice of a flat salary up front or a percentage of the film's future earnings. I took the up front money. Nobody could have figured what Halloween would ultimately become.

We know so very little about this strange planet we live on, this haunted world where all answers lead only to more mystery.

I'm still a member of the Empire! Although I sometimes feel like an American with a British accent - you get contaminated after so long.

True individuality can be lonely.

Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.