When people say "the body," frequently they mean the literal body, the physical body.

I want, I want, I want! We never grow out of it somehow. Unless we become Buddhists, maybe.

I'm not sure why my muse is female, except when I am deliberately playing against that figure.

This condition [irony] has nothing to do with writer's block, a psychological syndrome, which is one of the few I have not diagnosed for myself!

In Among the White Moon Faces, I wrote about my desire to be a writer as rooted in my obsessive hours of reading English novels and poetry. It was that spur, that desire, that pushed me to set aside love and marriage in my early twenties.

I don't know where to place my body. Everyone notices that about me. I'm very restless.

The consciousness of one's physical self had to be repressed because, socially, the female body was so visible, an ongoing provocation and incitement of specular curiosity and fascination.