The aim of literature ... is the creation of a strange object covered with fur which
breaks your heart.
Write about what you're afraid of.
He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it... he is insane because when he loved you, you didn't notice.
The death of God left the angels in a strange position.
There is no moment that exceeds in beauty that moment when one looks at a woman and finds that she is looking at you in the same way that you are looking at her. The moment in which she bestows that look that says, "Proceed with your evil plan, sumbitch."
And I sat there getting drunker and drunker and more in love and more in love.
There was no particular point at which I stopped being promising.
Well chaps first I'd like to say a few vile things more or less at random, not only because it is expected of me but also because I enjoy it.