One realm we have never conquered: the pure present.

Only in a novel are all things given full play.

I love Italian opera - it's so reckless. Damn Wagner, and his bellowings at Fate and death. Damn Debussy, and his averted face. I like the Italians who run all on impulse, and don't care about their immortal souls, and don't worry about the ultimate.

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.

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.

And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place - even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings.It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.

If you believe in your own sex, and won't have it done dirt to: they'll down you. It's the one insane taboo left: sex as a naturaland vital thing.