Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.

God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and more tired.

The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.

If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.