And that is ... how they are. So terribly physically all over one another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness into each other's face.

There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master.

This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us. This makes us secret and rotten.

The mind is "ashamed" of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.

Whatever men you take, keep the idea of man intact: let your soul wait whether your body does or not.

We ought to dance with rapture that we should be alive and in the flesh, and part of the living, incarnate cosmos.

You live by what you thrill to, and there's the end of it.