We're talking about the struggle to drag a thought over from the mush of the unconscious into some kind of grammar, syntax, human sense; every attempt means starting over with language. Starting over with accuracy.

You doubt God? Well more to the point I credit God with the good sense to doubt me. What is mortality after all but divine doubt flashing over us? For an instant God suspends assent and poof! we disappear.

One of the principle qualities of pain is that it demands an explanation.

Men know almost nothing about desire, they think it has to do with sexual activity or can be discharged that way. But sex is a substitute, like money or language. Sometimes I just want to stop seeing.

All human desire is poised on an axis of paradox, absence and presence its poles, love and hate its motive energies.

Philosophy - hopeless. Yet it gives me hope.

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