But I think humans are innately religious as a species, so you don't need a specific excuse for examining the perversely unholy.

Your flesh is killing your spirit. You have forsaken yourself.

There is no delight the equal of dread

I don't like to make a distinction between the writer and the painter , finally , because I do both things anyway . Everybody's dreaming and trying to put down their dreams in the way that their hand knows best . I feel as much a unity , as much comradeship , with painters as I do writers .

One part of love is innocence One part of love is guilt One part the milk that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt One part of love is sentiment One part of love is lust One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust

Flesh could not keep its glamour, nor eyes their sheen. They would go to nothing soon. But monsters are forever.

She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.