The societies to which I have been exposed seemed to me largely machines for the suppression of women.

The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.

He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.

The way of the world is to bloom and to flower and die but in the affairs of men there is no waning and the noon of his expression signals the onset of night. His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.

When one has nothing left make ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.

Ive seen the meanness of humans till I dont know why God aint put out the sun and gone away.

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.