I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.

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

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

I collect men with interesting names.

If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.

What is so real as the cry of a child?