She closed her eyes, dark-lidded, dark shadows beneath them; she really was older, not the glancing-eyed girl I had fallen in love with but no less beautiful for that; beautiful now in a way that less excited my senses than tore at my very heart.

Who was it said that coincidence was just God’s way of remaining anonymous?

Clearly something had gone wrong, badly, only I wasn't quite sure what—apart from knowing that I was responsible somehow, in the generalized miasma of shame and unworthiness and being-a-burden that never quite left me.

I hope we're all ready to leave the phenomenal world, and enter into the sublime?

Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us.

On the other hand, I mean, that is what writers have always been supposed to do, was to rely on their own devices and to - I mean, writing is a lonely business.

But romantic vision can also lead one away from certain very hard, ugly truths about life that are important to know.