We have been poisoned by fairy tales.

Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s.

Why do I doubt her? Perhaps she is just very sensitive, and hypersensitive people are false when others doubt them; they waver. And one thinks them insincere. Yet I want to believe her. At the same time it does not seem so very important that she should love me. It is not her role. I am so filled with my love of her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.

I will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

Will you come down and kiss me good night?

I love your silences, they are like mine.