The bitterness of joy lies in the knowledge that is cannot last. Nor should joy last beyond a certain season, for, after that season, even joy would become merely habit.
We need the expressive arts, the ancient scribes, the storytellers, the priests.
Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.
No one is ever ordinary.
The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.
I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.
When I am fascinated by something, I like to play with it.
Flat or round, there has always been hate in the world.
I like writing about women, weak and strong, pathetic and heroic. I like writing about men, ditto. And all the variants of men and women, beasts and demons.
The so-called Real World. Human misery and sadness. Blind politics and general cruelty.
I never know where I am going, though. That is part of what makes it so wonderful. And after all, who does?
If I ever get to 100, I'd want to be filled with wonder and wild, adolescent, wide-eyed interest in newness. So let's keep the flame burning. Let's stop thinking everyone over 29, or 49, has to be reinforced by concrete.
Madness. I did not get myself born to die. I have better things to do.
Ecstasy and vulnerability belonged in the same dish. The fear the cup would be snatched away was what gave the wine its savor.
I must suppose that reading wonderful writers may, inadvertently, teach an avid reader a great deal -- not only about life and other matters, but about how to write. Therefore doubtless I have benefited from frequent immersions in the glowing genius of others. It would be nice to think so. (I do actually think so). But to improve my skills will never be the prompting force of my reading -- that's just literary lust.
We all have our dreams. May we find them, and God have mercy on us when we do.
Dawn rose from the desert and turned the river to wine.
Danger and anger are everywhere. Love is the rarity, the gem buried in the core of the mine, the outpost of God.
Men are not the causers of history. History itself, by a pressure of events, causes men to resort to particular actions.
Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.
The dictate of the light says: Know yourself and what you are. The dark replies, By all means, but then become afraid.
I simply write what I want, wish, long to write.... The state of human life and the god or demon within. The constant internal war that being alive can conjure.
He sat by her, watching every gesture she made, as if he would paint her portrait afterward.
I came up with a parallel Venice called Venus. set in a parallel Venice about 1701.
I was reading some complex books in my own youth-and no, I didnt always understand every word, let alone every concept-but I got the main thrust, which was like a lifeline in a fluctuating world.
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