So much for the fruits of love. Love? What's love? Sex, ah, that's another thing. Love has babies: sex has abortions.

She could see that to lose a sibling was hard: it could only seem unnatural:out of time, out of order, a vicious re-run of your own departure into nothingness.

One must be careful with words. Words turn probabilities into facts and by sheer force of definition translate tendencies into habits.

There is no real escape from autobiography into biography. The self has to be faced, or we die.

Writing is more than just the making of a series of comprehensible statements: it is the gathering in of connotations; the harvesting of them, like blackberries in a good season, ripe and heavy, snatched from among the thorns of logic.

The New Women! I could barely recognize them as being of the same sex as myself... They are satiated by everything, hungry for nothing. They are what I wanted to be; they are what I worked for them to be: and now I see them, I hate them.

Prudence says one thing, desire says another, and I'd rather go with desire any time.