Death in its way comes just as much of a surprise as birth.
Oh, God, who does not exist, you hate women, otherwise you'd have made them different. And Jesus, who snubbed your mother, you hate them more.
Kindness. The most unkind thing of all.
Writing is the product of a deeply disturbed psyche, and by no means therapeutic.
Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.
Ideally I'd like to spend two evenings a week talking to Proust and another conversing with the Holy Ghost.
August is a wicked month.
After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.
shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.
I'm a tuning fork, tense and twanging all the time.
There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.
jealousy is the direct result of self-betrayal.
What matters is the imaginative truth.
The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.
My hand does the work and I dont have to think; in fact, were I to think, it would stop the flow. Its like a dam in the brain that bursts.
Later as the day cools and they have gone in, the cry of the corncrake will carry across those same fields and over the lake to the blue-hazed mountain, such a lonely evening sound to it, like the lonely evening sound of the mothers, saying it is not our fault that we weep so, it is nature's fault that makes us first full, then empty.
I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.
Movie people are possessed by demons, but a very low form of demons.
Oh, love, what an unreasoning creature it grew to be.
She was an auxiliary nurse but training to be a true nurse because that was her calling, to serve mankind. She was a Martha. There were Marys and Marthas, but Marys got all the limelight because of being Christ's handmaiden, but Marthas were far more sincere.
It was the first time that I came face to face with madness and feared it and was fascinated by it.
Wherever there were horses or ponies the mushrooms always sprang up.
If the Holy Communion touched my teeth, I thought that was a mortal sin
I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.
When you fall in love, it is spring no matter when. Leaves falling make no difference, they are from another season.
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