In order to weep, I had descended to the realm of the dead themselves, to their secret chambers, led by the invisible but soft hands of birds down stairways which were folded up again as I advanced. I displayed my grief in the friendly fields of death, far from men: within myself.

We know that their adventures are childish. They themselves are fools. They are ready to kill or be killed over a card-game in which an opponent - or they themselves - was cheating. Yet, thanks to such fellows, tragedies are possible.

Violence is a calm that disturbs you.

It's a true image, born of a false spectacle.

I give the name violence to a boldness lying idle and enamored of danger.

I'm homosexual. How and why are idle questions. It's a little like wanting to know why my eyes are green.

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