The heavy red roses smoldering in the foggy morning, blood-colored and uninhibited, made me greedy, and tempted me powerfully to steal one--I asked the prices merely so I could come as near them as possible.

And the great spirit of darkness spread a shroud over me...everything was silent-everything. But upon the heights soughed the everlasting song, the voice of the air, the distant, toneless humming which is never silent.

Language must resound with all the harmonies of music. The writer must always, at all times, find the tremulous word which captures the thing and is able to draw a sob from my soul by its very rightness.

Love is every bit as violent and dangerous as murder.

I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.

I have gone to the forest.

And love was creation's source,creation's ruler; but all love's ways are strewn with blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.