What a strange world this is when you can have as much sex as you like but love is taboo.

In the antiseptic world we try to purge ourselves of difficult things. Don't dwell on it, switch off the light and go home. But this is home. I have to be a home to myself. I am the place I come back to and I can't keep hiding difficult things in trunks. Soon the house will be full of trunks and I perched on top of them with the phone saying, "Yes, I'm fine, of course, I'm fine, everything's fine." The trunks shudder.

Art is enchantment and artists have the right of spells.

With animal behavior, they're all fine until you introduce some rogue element into the cage, and then they go crazy.

The pain is when the dreams change, as they do, as they must.

Don’t you, when strangers and friends come to call, straighten the cushions, kick the books under the bed and put away the letter you were writing? How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are? Isn’t the mirror hostile enough?

Somewhere between fear and sex passion is.