Gradually I came to realize that my understanding of women goes only as far as the pleasure is concerned.

I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred, centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted. there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.

If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life.

Why do you insist upon destroying yourself?

we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure.

The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.

Your writing", she said to me, "it's so raw. It's like a sledgehammer, and yet it has humor and tenderness. . . .