I am dead. I have no desire for you. My body no longer wants the one who doesn’t love.

All that remains of that minute is time in all its purity, bone-white time.

When it's in a book I don't think it'll hurt any more ...exist any more. One of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.

I know it's not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction of costliness of their finery. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don't know where. I only know it isn't where women think.

A house means a family house, a place specially meant for putting children and men in so as to restrict their waywardness and distract them from the longing for adventure and escape they've had since time began.

Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.

Alcohol is barren. The words a man speaks in the night of drunkenness fade like the darkness itself at the coming of day.