Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.
Love is like trench warfare - you cannot see the enemy, but you know he is there and that it is wiser to keep your head down.
I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.
Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.
Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.
Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.
Music is only love looking for words.
Old age is an insult. It's like being smacked.
Religion is simply art bastardized out of all recognition.
I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.
Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might purprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough, or patient enough.
It only takes one match to ignite a haystack, or one remark to fire a mind.
We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behavior and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it.
Art like life is an open secret.
Very few people realise that sex is a psychic and not a physical act. The clumsy coupling of human beings is simply a biological paraphrase of this truth - a primitive method of introducing minds to each other, engaging them. But most people are stuck in the physical aspect, unaware of the poetic rapport which it so clumsily tries to teach.
A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.
The national characteristics... the restless metaphysical curiosity, the tenderness of good living and the passionate individualism. This is the invisible constant in a place with which the ordinary tourist can get in touch just by sitting quite quietly over a glass of wine in a Paris bistro.
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 of some unexplored ocean.
The loved object is simply one that has shared an experience at the same moment of time, narcissistically; and the desire to be near the beloved object is at first not due to the idea of possessing it, but simply to let the two experiences compare themselves, like reflections in different mirrors. All this may precede the first look, kiss, or touch; precede ambition, pride, or envy; precede the first declarations which mark the turning point—for from here love degenerates into habit, possession, and back to loneliness.
Everything really desirable has come about because of, or in spite of, wine!
It takes a lot of energy and a lot of neurosis to write a novel. If you were really sensible, you'd do something else.
A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love.
What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
Gamblers and lovers really play to lose.
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