Our love was the affliction for which only our love was the cure.

Why are you leaving me? He wrote, I do not know how to live. I do not know either but I am trying. I do not know how to try. There were some things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So i buried them and let them hurt me

I think after you live it's like before you lived.

She wanted more, more slang, more figures of speech, the bee's knees, the cats pajamas, horse of a different color, dog-tired, she wanted to talk like she was born here, like she never came from anywhere else

In truth I was manufacturing a brick wall of shits.

Why is taste, the crudest of our senses, exempted from the ethical rules that govern our other senses?

All really great artists, Jackson Pollack, John Cage, Beckett or Joyce - you are never indifferent to them.