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I was weary and oppressed, sickened by the cancer of these cureless hates which had not only poisoned the life of nations but had eaten into the lives of my friends, of almost everyone I had known. (TW)
Then was I as a tree/ Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night,/ A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,/ Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,/ And left me bare to weather. (WS)
Don’t tell me what my responsibility is. I’m an artist. My responsibility is to express what I feel. I don’t work for you, I don’t think for you, and I don’t belong to anybody. (BD)
