Oh the piercing sadness of life in the midst of its ordinariness!

Most of our love is shabby stuff, but there is always a thin line of gold, the bit of pure love on which all the rest depends -- and which redeems all the rest.

There is nothing like early promiscuous sex for dispelling life's bright mysterious expectations.

Art is brief. (Not in a temporal sense.) [...] Words are for concealment. Art is concealment.

As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.

confession ran in the family.

We are such inward secret creatures, that inwardness is the most amazing thing about us, even more amazing than our reason.