Like a cat I have nine times to die.

I cannot life for life itself: but for the words which stay the flux. My life, I feel, will not be lived until there are books and stories which relive it perpetually in time. I forget too easily how it was, and shrink to the horror of the here and now, with no past and no future. Writing breaks open the vaults of the dead and the skies behind which the prophesying angels hide. The mind makes and makes, spinning its web.

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

The more hopeless you were, the further away they hid you.

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

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.