I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.

Love is so much more deadly than I had thought, love is so much inherent as the very lack, and we are guaranteed by a need to be renewed continuously. Love is now, is forever. There is just the blow of grace - call it passion.

What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.

Even great men are only truly recognized and honored once they are dead. Why? Because those who praise them need to feel themselves somehow superior to the person praised, they need to feel they are making some concession.