A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.– Albert Camus
But you’re thinking about him in a song like “Beautiful Boy.”
John Lennon: Yeah, but that’s easy… it’s painting. Gauguin was stuck in fucking Tahiti, painting a big picture for his daughter – if the movie version I saw was true, right? So he’s in fucking Tahiti painting a picture for her, she dies in Denmark, she didn’t see him for 20 years, he has VD and is going out of his mind in Tahiti – he dies and the painting gets burned anyway, so nobody ever sees the masterpiece of his fucking life. And I’m always thinking things like that. So I write a song about the child, but it would have done better for me to spend the time I wrote the fucking song actually playing ball with him. The hardest thing for me to do is play… I can do everything else.
You can’t play?
John Lennon: Play, I can’t. I try and invent things. I can draw, I can watch TV with him. I’m great at that – I can watch any garbage, as long as I don’t have to move around, and I can talk and read to him and go out and take him with me for a coffee and things like that.
That’s weird, because your drawings and so many of the songs you’ve written are really playful.
John Lennon: That probably came from Paul more than from me.
I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love...– Voltaire
dictionaryofobscuresorrows: n. a feeling of resonant connection with an author or artist you’ll never meet, who may have lived centuries ago and thousands of miles away but can still get inside your head and leave behind morsels of their experience, like the little piles of stones left by hikers that mark a hidden path through unfamiliar territory.
me: why am i so funny
me: i don't know
I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way (s)he handles...– Maya Angelou (via enchanting)