Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.
I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.
I suppose I’ll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid.
I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative – which ever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.
The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.
A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
The future is what matters – because one never reaches it, but always stays in the present – like the White Queen who had to run like the wind to remain in the same spot.
Apparently, the most difficult feat for a Cambridge male is to accept a woman not merely as feeling, not merely as thinking, but as managing a complex, vital interweaving of both.
Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person.
Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.
How frail the human heart must be – a mirrored pool of thought.
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.