The history of our era is the nauseating and repulsive history of the crucifixion of the procreative body for the glorification ofthe spirit.

And in this passion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be made abstract first.

I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don't.

Never set a child afloat on the flat sea of life with only one sail to catch the wind.

How beautiful maleness is, if it finds its right expression.

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.

I shall always be a priest of love.