I have decided to leave Clea’s last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.

Very few people realise that sex is a psychic and not a physical act. The clumsy coupling of human beings is simply a biological paraphrase of this truth - a primitive method of introducing minds to each other, engaging them. But most people are stuck in the physical aspect, unaware of the poetic rapport which it so clumsily tries to teach.

They say that if you get bored enough with calamity you can learn to laugh.

I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.

People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.