In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.

She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; then my darling would draw away with a nervous toss of her hair, and then again come darkly near and let me feed on her open mouth, while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I gave her to hold in her awkward first the scepter of my passion.

I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

Solitude is the playfield of Satan.

Turning one's novel into a movie script is rather like making a series of sketches for a painting that has long ago been finished and framed.