If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.

We are so conceited and so unproud.

A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.

If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.

If I take my whole, passionate, spiritual and physical love to the woman who in return loves me, that is how I serve God. And my hymn and my game of joy is my work.

One man isn't any better than another, not because they are equal, but because they are intrinsically other, that there is no termof comparison.

Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.