I realized then the truth about all love: that it is an absolute which takes all or forfeits all. The other feelings, compassion, tenderness and so on, exist only on the periphery and belong on the co...
‘Life is more complicated than we think, yet far simpler than anyone dares to imagine’.)
Love is poetry plus biology.
People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.
Let us go to bed together and ignore the loutish reality of the world.
In marriage they legitimized despair; every kiss is the conquest of a repulsion.
But there are more than five sexes and only demotic Greek seems to distinguish among them.
The indifference of the natural world to the constructions of art
When one is fully extended by day and exhausted every evening one lives differently, without the weight of yesterday or tomorrow on one’s shoulders. I
Pienso en la época en la que el mundo conocido apenas existía para nosotros cuatro; los días eran simplemente espacios entre sueños, espacios entre capas móviles de tiempo, de actividades, de charla i...
Is it any wonder that I absent-mindedly take the entrance marked Aliens Only whenever I enter?
Each of our five senses contains an art.
The appalling thing is the degree of charity women are capable of. You see it all the time... love lavished on absolute fools. Love's a charity ward, you know.
…I once found a list of diseases as yet unclassified by medical science, and among these there occurred the word Islomania, which was described as a rare but by no means unknown affliction of spirit....
أفكر في أن المدينة كالانسان تجمع ميولها وشهواتها ومخاوفها. إنها تنمو حتى تبلغ النضج وتقدم أنبياءها، ثم تنحدر إلى التبلد أو الشيخوخة أو الوحدة وهي أسوأ من كليهما. والأحياء لا يزلن يجلسن على قارعة الطري...
We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.
These are the moments which are not calculable, and cannot be assessed in words; they live on in the solution of memory, like wonderful creatures, unique of their own kind, dredged up from the floors...
There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.
I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.
I have done so many things in my life, she said to the mirror. Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?