It feels good, honey, but it isn’t love.
I love insult, it’s always honest.
The denial of language is a suicidal one and we pay for it with our own lives.
Paradox: how do we know what we have failed to see because we have no language to express it, thus we cannot know that we have failed to see it.
You don’t have to understand why anything that has happened nor do you even have to understand what it is that has happened. You have only to live with the remains.
In a family, what isn’t spoken is what you listen for. But the noise of a family is to drown it out.
An actress wants to be seen. An actress wants to be loved. By multitudes of people, not just one lone man.
One man’s insanity is another man’s genius; someday the world will recognize the genius in my insanity.
Memory blurs, that’s the point. If memory didn’t blur you wouldn’t have the fool’s courage to do things again, again, again, that tear you apart.
Sometimes people surprise us. People we believe we know.
Betrayal is the deepest wound. Betrayal is what remains of love, when love has gone.
This was before voice mail, recorded phone messages you can’t escape. Life was easier then. You just didn’t pick up the phone.
Yet the fact had no consciousness of itself except through me.
To love life for some men is to love fighting, for fighting, and not love, is seen as man’s deepest passion.
Ambitious, absorbing, and poignantly moving.
There is no PAST anybody can get to, to alter things or even to know what those things were but there is definitely a future, we are already in it.
Prose-it might be speculated-is discourse; poetry ellipsis. Prose is spoken aloud; poetry overheard.
It must happen to everyone. The last time you make love, you can’t know it will be the last.
Food doesn’t exist, but can only be invented. And reinvented.
Better to be despised, then, than to be ignored; or damned with condescending praise.