Naïveté, that sort of total simpleness and confidence in gazing at things of which intellegence at the highest degree of its vitality or childish ignorance alone are capable, and which, believes as one breathes, "believeth all things."

How could one utter if he didn't believe? "La Bêtise," said Baudelaire. I hid myself in the disparaging irony of  twentyfirst-century dandyism, with which any great work believes all things: not only all things brought to me by works experience, but also everything in the world and in myself which is food or support for it, and every nod and wink that events give to me, and my own feeling, and my own urge to speak an unspeakable truth of my own, carried in me.

I have no doubt at all. I seem even immune from the doubt which troubles so many great works about my own work.

Naïveté, integrity, and luck.