Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness.

... only love begets love.

I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

If I love you it means we share the same fantasies, the same madnesses

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.

And silence. She liked the silence most of all. The silence in which the body, senses, the instincts, are more alert, more powerful, more sensitized, live a more richly perfumed and intoxication life, instead of transmuting into thoughts, words, into exquisite abstractions, mathematics of emotion in place of violent impact, the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight.

There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.