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

We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.