Just let them come, visit, like birds.

The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement.

Socrates wrote nothing. Christ wrote nothing.

Intense mutual erotic love, love which involves with the flesh all the most refined sexual being of the spirit, which reveals and perhaps even ex nihilo creates spirit as sex, is comparatively rare in this inconvenient world.

Marriage isn't a tram. It doesn't have to get anywhere.

People who boast of happy marriages are, I submit, usually self-deceivers, if not actually liars.

The very madness of the scheme protects it.

There is nothing like early promiscuous sex for dispelling life's bright mysterious expectations.

Not to have been born is undoubtedly best, but sound sleep is second best.

Oh the piercing sadness of life in the midst of its ordinariness!