I would rather like to think of God as being a kind of adventurer - even as Wells thought about him - or perhaps as something within us making for some unknown purpose.

Doubt is one of the names of intelligence.

Poetry springs from something deeper; it's beyond intelligence.

What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose?

Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

I wonder if I have woven through dreams the sexual strife. I don't think so. But after all, my business is to weave dreams. I suppose I may be allowed to choose the material.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart, I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.