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The book is openly a kind of spiritual autobiography, but the trick is that on any other level it's a kind of insane collage of fragments of memory.
Any system that sees aesthetics as irrelevant, that separates the artist from his product, that fragments the work of the individual, or creates by committee, or makes mincemeat of the creative process will, in the long run, diminish not only the product but the maker as well.
We live in the mind, in ideas, in fragments. We no longer drink in the wild outer music of the streets - we remember only.
It's impossible to move, to live, to operate at any level without leaving traces, bits, seemingly meaningless fragments of personal information.
Film is shot in fragments, and the same moments can be shot again and again until the director is satisfied.
I guess I'm just hopelessly fascinated by the realities that you can assemble out of connected fragments.
Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.
I write down portions, maybe fragments, and perhaps an imperfect view of what I'm hoping to write. Out of that, I keep trying to find exactly what I want.
Some things remain fragments, just the lyrics and melodies or a line or two or a verse.
We are like ignorant shepherds living on a site where great civilizations once flourished. The shepherds play with the fragments that pop up to the surface, having no notion of the beautiful structures of which they were once a part.
