Solitude, as I understand it, does not signify an unhappy state, but rather secret royalty, profound incommunicability yet a more or less obscure knowledge of an invulnerable singularity.

Poetry is the break (or rather the meeting at the breaking point) between the visible and the invisible.

...beauty is the projection of ugliness and by developing certain monstrosities we obtain the purest ornaments.

The pimp has a grin, never a smile.

Solitude, as I understand it, does not signify an unhappy state, but rather secret royalty, profound incommunicability yet a more or less obscure knowledge of an invulnerable singularity.

on him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.

They remain dead, the people I try to resuscitate by straining to hear what they say. But the illusion is not pointless, or not quite, even if the reader knows all this better than I do. One thing a book tries to do, beneath the disguise of words and causes and clothes and grief, is show the skeleton and the skeleton dust to come. The author too, like those of whom he speaks, is dead.