I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.

I like people too much or not at all.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.