What does it mean that you have not written me?... Am I a dream to you, am I not real and warm for you? What new loves, new ecstasies, new impulses move you now?
What makes some butterflies have such beautiful colors on their wings, and others not? The plain ones were born of parents who didn't know how to paint.
When human pain has struck me fiercely, when anger has corroded me, I rise, I always rise after the crucifixion, and I am in terror of my ascensions. THE FISSURE IN REALITY. The divine departure. I fa...
The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
A long time ago, said Michael, I decided never to fall in love again. I have made of desire an anonymous activity. But not to feel...not to love...is like dying within life, Michael.
At night too, she puzzled the mystery of her desperate need of kindness. As other girls prayed for handsomeness in a lover, or for wealth, or for power, or for poetry, she had prayed fervently: let hi...
At sixteen Sabina took moon baths, first of all because everyone else took sun baths, and second, she admitted, because she had been told it was dangerous. The effect of moon baths was unknown, but it...
But I am not sure what this self is. For the moment I seem to be busy tearing down what I was.
Didn't the old man know how words carry colors and sounds into the flesh
Does she know I feel immobile and fixed, lost in her?
He has made me lucid and sane, and I am suffering cruelly from the loss of my imaginary life.
He observed confusion and chaos, which I call living by one's emotions instead of one's mind.
He was only for the joyous days, the days of courage, when she could share with him all the good things he brought with his passion for novelty and change. But he knew nothing of her; he was no compan...
He was whispering over and over again the same phrase, You have the body of an angel. It is impossible that such a body should have a sex. You have the body of an angel. The anger swept over Fay like...
He worked on small canvases with a touch as light as a cobweb and coloring made of mirages. He lived there, at the bottom of the sea...
Hell is a different place for each man, or each man has his own particular hell. My descent into the inferno is a descent into the irrational level of existence, where the instincts and blind emotions...
Henry's recollections of the past, in contrast to Proust, are done while in movement. He may remember his first wife while making love to a whore, or he may remember his very first love while walking...
His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.
How can I accept a limited definable self when I feel, in me, all possibilities?... I never feel the four walls around the substance of the self, the core. I feel only space. Illimitable space.
How to live as divided cells — voilà! Something always eludes the scientists, the poets, the stargazers, the biologists, the anthropologists. Something eludes the informers, detectives, police, lawyer...
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