Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?
I’m trying to die correctly, but it’s very difficult, you know.
Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.
There is no pain compared to that of loving a woman who makes her body accessible to one and yet who is incapable of delivering her true self – because she does not know where to find it.
Truth disappears with the telling of it.
What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time – those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.
A woman’s best love letters are always written to the man she is betraying.
No history much? Perhaps. Only this ominous Dark beauty flowering under veils, Trapped in the spectrum of a dying style: A village like an instinct left to rust, Composed around the echo of a pistol-shot.
Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.
Life is more complicated than we think, yet far simpler than anyone dares to imagine.
Odd, isn’t it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way; but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called ‘right’ person always comes to soon or too late.
How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.
Now stiff on a pillar with a phallic air nelson stylites in Trafalgar square reminds the British what once they were.
Life is like a cucumber. One minute it’s in your hand, the next it’s up you ass.
Poverty is a great cutter-off and riches a great shutter-off.
The memory of man is as old as misfortune.
It only takes one match to ignite a haystack, or one remark to fire a mind.
It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.
Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.