Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.

Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.

The love between man and woman is the greatest and most complete passion the world will ever see, because it is dual, because it is of two opposing kinds.

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

They say geniuses mostly have great mothers. They mostly have sad fates.

The tragedy is when you've got sex in the head instead of down where it belongs.

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