And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

Life is good, but Wine is better.

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

Life is full of paradoxes, as roses are of thorns.

I look for myself but find no one. I belong to the chrysanthemum hour of bright flowers placed in tall vases. I should make an ornament of my soul.

When one of my Japanese teacups is broken, I imagine that the real cause was not the careless hand of a maid but the anxieties of the figures inhabiting the curves of that porcelain. Their grim decision to commit suicide doesn't shock me: they used the maid as one of us might use a gun.

I'd like to be in the country so that I'd could like being in the city.