Going to pieces. To go to pieces so pointlessly and unnecessarily.

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us.

Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.

I want in fact more of you. In my mind I am dressing you with light; I am wrapping you up in blankets of complete acceptance and then I give myself to you. I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.

My guiding principle is this: Guilt is never to be doubted.

Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come.

A book should serve as an axe to the ice inside us.