I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.

Sex and beauty are inseparable, like life and consciousness. And the intelligence which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.

In masturbation there is nothing but loss.

Pure morality is only an instinctive adjustment which the soul makes.

It is so much more difficult to live with one's body than with one's soul. One's body is so much more exacting: what it won't have it won't have, and nothing can make bitter into sweet.

Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?

In America the chief accusation seems to be one of "Eroticism." This is odd, rather puzzling to my mind. Which Eros? Eros of the jaunty "amours," or Eros of the sacred mysteries? And if the latter, why accuse, why not respect, even venerate?