I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.

All those little congruences and arabesques you prepared with such delicate anticipatory pleasure are gobbled up as if by pigs at a pastry cart.

Seemed to me important in writing about people to be able to describe the sexual transactions between them. It's - for many people it's the height of, what they see, of ecstasy and poetry is in their sexual encounters. And furthermore, personality - human personality does not end in the bedroom, but persists.

The first breath of adultery is the freest; after it, constraints aping marriage develop.

Hope bases vast premises on foolish accidents, and reads a word where in fact only a scribble exists.

We do survive every moment, after all, except the last one.

Love makes the air light.