All my life I’ve been harassed by questions: Why is something this way and not another? How do you account for that? This rage to understand, to fill in the blanks, only makes life more banal. If we could only find the courage to leave our destiny to chance, to accept the fundamental mystery of our lives, then we might be closer to the sort of happiness that comes with innocence.
it takes a great deal of skill for a person to write about them-self and make it anything other than tedious.
the self is such a clutter of rubbish. it can’t be taken seriously. there is nothing to take seriously.
bunuel would write jokes & send them to charlie chaplin.
the humour is what makes the difference.
talking to a friend about serious versus insipid art, serious after all insists on good jokes whereas insipid might simply come across them by mistake. it is easier to manage insipid art, you know where you stand with it.
for me bunuel is the great exponent of psyche art, dream art – i don’t trust surrealism, it’s too obsessed with being pedantic. bunuel is funny.