At fifty the madwoman in the attic breaks loose, stomps down the stairs, and sets fire to the house. She won't be imprisoned anymore.
A wet dream in the mind of New York.
It's easier to write about pain than about joy. Joy is wordless.
We all have fantasies about sex that are more perfect than anything in reality.
Court, in our society, is often the last resort of stubbornness.
Art keeps one young, I think, because it keeps one perpetually a beginner, perpetually a child.