But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That's closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.

They know a million tricks, those novelists. Take Doctor Goebbels; that's how he started out, writing fiction. Appeals to the base lusts that hide in everyone no matter how respectable on the surface. Yes, the novelist knows humanity, how worthless they are, ruled by their testicles, swayed by cowardice, selling out every cause because of their greed - all he's got to do is thump on the drum, and there's his response. And he's laughing, of course, behind his hand at the effect he gets.

Dance is the language of artistic kinesis.

If an artist is not only he who sings or paints, but he who express himself by words or drawing then I can consider myself as one.

Like many people who dress in black, the lump of coal was interested in becoming an artist.

The term bohemian has a bad reputation because it's allied to myriad clichés, but Parisians originally adopted the term, associated with nomadic Gypsies, to describe artists and writers who stayed up all night and ignored the pressures of the industrial world.