All good art is an indiscretion.

All good art is an indiscretion.

I don't think there is such a thing as a precise sexual orientation. I think we're all ambiguous sexually.

Jim lights a cigarette and leans indolently back on his elbow smiling at Laura with a warmth and charm which lights her inwardly with altar candles.

But there are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark -- that sort of make everything else seem -- unimportant.

Oh, Jacques, we're used to each other, we're a pair of captive hawks caught in the same cage, and so we've grown used to each other. That's what passes for love at this dim, shadowy end of the Camino Real.

Security is a kind of death.