All the men she's been with and now you, just you, and the barges going by, masts and hulls, the whole damned current of life flowing through you, through her, through all the guys behind you and after you, the flowers and the birds and the sun streaming in and the fragrance of it choking you, annihilating you.

Each man has his own way of being himself and of saying it so ultimately that he can't be denied.

At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a drop or two of love―just enough to feed the birds.

Don't look for miracles. You yourself are the miracle.

Even the idiot may have a message for us

I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company.

Surrealism is merely the reflection of the death process. It is one of the manifestations of a life becoming extinct, a virus which quickens the inevitable end.