Like a cat I have nine times to die.

Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

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

I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.

My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.