That night we made love "the real way" which we had not yet attempted although married six months. Big mystery. No one knew where to put their leg and to this day I'm not sure we got it right. He seemed happy. You're like Venice he said beautifully. Early next day I wrote a short talk ("On Defloration") which he stole and had published in a small quarterly magazine. Overall this was a characteristic interaction between us. Or should I say ideal. Neither of us had ever seen Venice.

No need to fear death. There will be a tunnel and light.

We participate in the creation of the world by decreating ourselves.

The self forms at the edge of desire, and a science of self arises in the effort to leave that self behind.

There is something about the way that Greek poets, say Aeschylus, use metaphor that really attracts me. I don't think I can imitate it, but there's a density to it that I think I'm always trying to push towards in English.

Making is always a slightly hopeful thing because once you've made something, it'll - the world will be different.

Here we go mother on the shipless ocean. Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.