Love makes use of the worst traps. The least noble. The rarest. It exploits coincidence.

She was happy, and perfectly in line with the tradition of those women they used to call "ruined," "fallen," feckless, bitches in heat, ravished dolls, sweet sluts, instant princesses, hot numbers, great lays, succulent morsels, everybody's darlings . . .

My heart's in my hand, and my hand is pierced, and my hand's in the bag, and the bag is shut, and my heart is caught.

The pimp has a grin, never a smile.

Anyone who knows a strange fact shares in its singularity.

Crimes of which a people is ashamed constitute its real history. The same is true of man.

Violence is a calm that disturbs you.