It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

I want to be silverly beautiful.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.