New York has an electronic heart.

I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.

We are beginning to see the influence of dream upon reality and reality upon dream.

Will you come down and kiss me good night?

Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death

To love and to labor is the sum of living.

Talk—half-talk, phrases that had no need to be finished, abstractions, Chinese bells played on with cotton-tipped sticks, mock orange blossoms painted on porcelain. The muffled, close, half-talk of soft-fleshed women. The men she had embraced, and the women, all washing against the resonance of my memory. Sound within sound, scene within scene, woman within woman—like acid revealing an invisible script. One woman within another eternally, in a far-reaching procession, shattering my mind into fragments, into quarter tones which no orchestral baton can ever make whole again.