Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!
How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.
I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back