Trauma reflected upon in tranquility can produce morally stunning insights - literary light! It can also produce maudlin rubbish.

In an age in which greed and lust stalk the land like some Biblical plague, it is easy to view sex as just one more thing to be had. It is the mythos of moderns.

It is the psychic depression of decadence which has come to this place and time. It is what happens to people who ignore their artists and deny their children. It is a terminal case of involutional melancholia which comes from within and cannot be cured by T.V. or psychotherapy or anything but a creative life, which is hard to come by in a country where it doesn't pay to do anything for yourself.

Growing old is not a thing to watch. It cannot be forgiven in others. Alone, it can be borne. Even indulged.

The life of the city cat is short but so sophisticated.

You can't make poetry out of thought; poetry is passion. Linear thought must be seduced by wild mind, by the fires of ecstasy.

I don't think a person should take herself seriously unless she is alone.