There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

If you can't create, you destroy.

Since desire always goes towards that which is our direct opposite, it forces us to love that which will make us suffer.

While analyzing so many people I realized the constant need of a mother, or a father, or a god (the same thing) is really immaturity. It is a childish need, a human need, but so universal that I can see how it gave birth to all religions.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.

Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.

When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, and with a wolflike sharpness, his teeth sank into her fleshiest parts. Naked now, he lay his full length over her. She enjoyed his weight on her, enjoyed being crushed under his body. She wanted him soldered to her, from mouth to feet. Shivers passed through her body.