The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.