The heaviest impact of the work of art is in the guts. Art does not reason. It manhandles you and changes you.

I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.

Odd, isn't it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way; but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called 'right' person always comes to soon or too late.

But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket

It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.