We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

Physical experiences, lacking the joys of love, depend on twists and perversions of pleasure. Abnormal pleasures kill the taste for normal ones.

We must protect the minority writers because they are the research workers of literature. They keep it alive. It has been fashionable of late to seek out and force such writers into more popular channels, to the detriment of both writer and an unprepared public.

When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.

Sexual intercourse... a joyous, joyous, joyous, joyous impaling of woman on man's sensual mast.

We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.