We burn so hard, but we shed so little light; it makes us crazy and sad.
Life is short And pleasures few And holed the ship And drowned the crew But o! But o! How very blue the sea is.
Midian is where the monsters go.
There’s no conscious thing on the face of the world that doesn’t know dread more intimately than its own heartbeat.
With the inevitability of a tongue returning to probe a painful tooth, we come back and back and back again to our fears, sitting to talk them over with the eagerness of a hungry man before a full and steaming plate.
A man kills the thing he loves, and he must die a little himself.
His body and his mind went about their different businesses. The former, freed from conscious instruction, breathed, rolled, sweated, and digested. The latter went dreaming.
Perhaps sunlight had always been luminous, and doorways signs of greater passage than that of one room to another. But she’d not noticed it until now.
Whatever capacity she possesses to supernaturally beguile a human soul – and she possesses many – she liked his clear-sightedness too well, to blind him that way.
Well, it was most likely too late; there would not be time for me to flagellate myself for every dishonorable deed in that list, nor any chance to make good the harms I’d done. Minor harms, to be sure, in the scheme of things; but large enough to regret.
There must still be room for the falling note, of course. Even in an undying world there are times when beauty passes from sight, or love passes from the heart, and we feel the sorrow of partition.
Flesh could not keep its glamour, nor eyes their sheen. They would go to nothing soon. But monsters are forever.
There are lives lived for love, and lives lived for art. We, happy band, have chosen the later persuasion.
One man’s pornography is another man’s theology.
Three is the number of those who do holy work; Two is the number of those who do lover’s work; One is the number of those who do perfect evil Or perfect good.
Nothing happens carelessly. We’re not brought into the world without reason, even though we may never understand the reason. An infant that lives an hour, that dies before it can lay eyes on those who made it, even that soul did not live without purpose: this is my sudden certainty.
Journey to the end of day, Come the fire-fly, Come the moon; Say a prayer for God’s good grace And sleep with lore upon your face.
Maybe the man had taken the wrong turning, but at least he’d travelled some extraordinary roads.
Angels have very nasty tempers. Especially when they’re feeling righteous.
Anyway, it’s gone. And there’s nothing left in my pocket to charm you. So from now on it’s going to have to be tears or nothing I’m afraid. That’s all I’ve got left to tell you see: tears, tears, tears.