What stops you killing yourself when you're intoxicated out of your mind is the thought that once you're dead you won't be able to drink any more.

In homosexual love the passion is homosexuality itself. What a homosexual loves, as if it were his lover, his country, his art, his land, is homosexuality.

When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.

I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

In love there are no vacations. No such thing. Love has to be lived fully with its boredom and all that.

The woman is the home. That's where she used to be, and that's where she still is. You might ask me, What if a man tries to be part of the home -- will the woman let him? I answer yes. Because the he becomes one of the children.

Perhaps someone will have seen mine, the one I’m waiting for, just as I saw him, in a ditch when his hands were making their last appeal and his eyes no longer could see. Someone who will never know what that man was to me; someone whose name I’ll never know.