Slowly but surly I want to strip her of every kind of happiness as to make a saint of her.

In reviewing my life, in tracing its course, I fill my cell with the pleasure of being what for want of a trifle I failed to be, recapturing, so that I may hurl myself into them as into dark pits, those moments when I strayed through the trap-ridden compartments of a subterranean sky

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

To achieve harmony in bad taste is the height of elegance.

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

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

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 . . .