And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine Burned like the ruby fire set In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

I have said to you to speak the truth is a painful thing. To be forced to tell lies is much worse.

You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me.

I don't like novels that end happily. They depress me so much

America is one long expectoration.

In a temple everything should be serious except the thing that is being worshiped.

Let me be dressed as I will, yet flies worms and flowers exceed me still.