The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.

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

Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be...including our perception. Of it

In my childhood diary I wrote: “I have decided that it is better not to love anyone, because when you love people, then you have to be separated from them, and that hurts too much.

Memory is a great betrayer.

You are the only woman who ever answered the demands of my imagination.

I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.