I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.

What surprises you in life? The marvel of consciousness -- that sudden window swinging open on a sunlit landscape amidts the night of non-being.

How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!

Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.

You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

No writer in a free country should be expected to bother about the exact demarcation between the sensuous and the sensual; this is preposterous; I can only admire but cannot emulate the accuracy of judgment of those who pose the fair young mammals photographed in magazines where the general neckline is just low enough to provoke a past master's chuckle and just high enough not to make a postmaster frown.