I was in his hands, he called me by the thunder at my ear. I was in his hands: I was being changed; all that I could do was cling to him. I did not realize, until I realized it, that I was also kissing him, that everything was breaking and changing and turning in me and moving toward him.

Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give.

There exists among the intolerable degraded, the perverse and powerful desire to force into the arena of the actual those fantastic crimes of which they have been accused, achieving their vengeance and their own destruction through making the nightmare real.

Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.

For these are all our children, we will all profit by or pay for whatthey become.

You write in order to change the world.

The writer's only real task: to recreate out of the disorder of life that order which is art