New York seems conducted by jazz, animated by it. It is essentially a city of rhythm.
Where the myth fails, human love begins. Then we love a human being, not our dream, but a human being with flaws.
There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through.
I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.
I have seen romanticism outlast the realistic. I have seen men forget the beautiful women they have possessed, forget the prostitutes, and remember the first woman they idolized, the woman they could never have. The woman who aroused them romantically holds them.
We three belong to the Middle Ages. We have this need of heroism, and there is no place for such feelings in modern life. That is our tragedy. Once I wanted to be a saint. It seemed the only absolute act left to do, for what is most powerful in me is the craving for purity, greatness.