Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation.
Nostalgia, the vice of the aged. We watch so many old movies our memories come in monochrome.
Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself. You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world. You bring your history and you read it in your own terms.
Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.
What a joy it is to dance and sing!
There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.
I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
There was a house we all had in common and it was called the past, even though we'd lived in different rooms.
Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
Mother goddesses are just as silly a notion as father gods. If a revival of the myths of these cults gives woman emotional satisfaction, it does so at the price of obscuring the real conditions of life. This is why they were invented in the first place.
Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.
In a world where women are commodities, a woman who refuses to sell herself will have the thing she refuses to sell taken away from her by force
A book is simply the container of an idea-like a bottle; what is inside the book is what matters.
A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.
We must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity.
Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.
A young girl would go into the wood as trustingly as Red Riding Hood to her granny's house but this light admits no ambiguities and, here, she will be trapped in her own illusion because everything in the woods is exactly as it seems.
Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure.
For most of human history, 'literature,' both fiction and poetry, has been narrated, not written — heard, not read. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world.
She stood lost in eternity wearing a crazy dress, watching the immense sky.
I think it's one of the scars in our culture that we have too high an opinion of ourselves. We align ourselves with the angels instead of the higher primates.
Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
I don't really think that writers, even great writers, are prophets, or sages, or Messiah-like figures; writing is a lonely, sedentary occupation and a touch of megalomania can be comforting around five on a November afternoon when you haven't seen anybody all day.
His touch both consoles and devastates me; I feel my heart pulse, then wither, naked as a stone on the roaring mattress while the lovely, moony night slides through the window to dapple the flanks of this innocent who makes cages to keep the sweet birds in. Eat me, drink me; thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden, I go back and back to him to have his fingers strip the tattered skin away and clothe me in his dress of water, this garment that drenches me, its slithering odour, its capacity for drowning.
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