I have been writing in spurts, bit by bit. It is incredibly difficult. Everything is corroded, broken, dismantled; everything is covered with hardened layers of accumulated insensitivity, deafness, entrenched routine. It is disgusting.

When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.

As in an explosion, I would erupt with all the wonderful things I saw and understood in this world.

Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.

Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people's songs.

If it's so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love.

And when the war broke out, its real horrors, its real dangers, its menace of real death were a blessing compared with the inhuman reign of the lie, and they brought relief because they broke the spell of the dead letter.