If I am not master of my life, not sultan of my own being, then no man's logic and no man's ecstatic fits may force me to find less silly my impossibly silly position: that of God's slave; no, not his...
I tore apart the fantasies of Poe, And dealt with childhood memories of strange Nacreous gleams beyond the adults’ range.
I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that pas...
And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
And a beautiful garden, not far from a beautiful lake, and I said it sounded perfectly perfect.
There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each othe...
The crickets kept crepitating; from time to time there came a sweet whiff of burning juniper; and above the black alpestrine steppe, above the silken sea, the enormous, all-engulfing sky, dove-gray wi...
I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.
His life was a constant war with insensate objects that fell apart, or attacked him, or refused to function, or viciously got themselves lost as soon as they entered the sphere of his existence.
Emphatically, no killers are we. Poets never kill.
Beyond observing that some law of logic should fix the number of coincidences, in a given domain, after which they cease to be coincidences, and form, instead, the living organism of a new truth (Tell...
You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.
Some people-and I am one of them-hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam.
Qui veut être assassin, de nos jours, doit être un homme de science. Non, non, je n'étais ni l'un ni l'autre. Mesdames et messieurs les jurés, la majorité des pervers sexuels qui brûlent d'avoir avec...
Philosophy is the invention of the rich.
I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of my...
A thousand years ago five minutes wereEqual to forty ounces of fine sand.Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime andInfinite aftertime: above your headThey close like giant wings, and you are dead.
All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter. For me style is matter.
It's a pity one can't imagine what one can't compare to anything. Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
Perhaps what matters is not the human pain or joy at all but, rather, the play of shadow and light on a live body, the harmony of trifles assembled...in a unique and inimitable way.