I see her as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.

Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.

She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg: she is a sealed vessel; she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane; she is a closed system; she does not know how to shiver.

In a world where women are commodities, a woman who refuses to sell herself will have the thing she refuses to sell taken away from her by force

In a secular age, an authentic miracle must purport to be a hoax, in order to gain credit in the world.

Among the monsters, I am well hidden; who looks for a leaf in a forest?

Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.