They spent their time doing nothing... they let intimacy fuse them.

Erotic play discloses a nameless world which is revealed by the nocturnal language of lovers. Such language is not written down. It is whispered into the ear at night in a hoarse voice. At dawn it is forgotten.

Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?

Anyone who knows a strange fact shares in its singularity.

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

The despondency that follows makes me feel somewhat like a shipwrecked man who spies a sail, sees himself saved, and suddenly remembers that the lens of his spyglass has a flaw, a blurred spot -- the sail he has seen.

Perhaps all music, even the newest, is not so much something discovered as something that re-emerges from where it lay buried in the memory, inaudible as a melody cut in a disc of flesh. A composer lets me hear a song that has always been shut up silent within me.