baldwin-confession

All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up.

Thought:

“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,
And born in bed, in bed we die;
The near approach a bed may shew
Of human bliss to human woe.”

Samuel Johnson | “À Son Lit,” from the French of Isaac de Benserade

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