If I love you it means we share the same fantasies, the same madnesses.

I often see how you sob over what you destroy, how you want to stop and just worship; and you do stop, and then a moment later you are at it again with a knife, like a surgeon.

I have no fear of God, and yet fear keeps me awake at night,fear of the devil. And if I believe in the devil, I must believe in God. And if evil is abhorrent to me, I must be a saint. Henry, save me from beatification, from the horrors of static perfection. Precipitate me into the inferno.

I don't hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you into me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.

Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.

Tropical nights are hammocks for lovers.

Coming near him like a ballet dancer she took a leap towards him, and he, frightened by her vehemence, and fearing that she would crash against him, instinctively became absolutely rigid, and she felt herself embracing a statue.

We cannot cure the evils of politics with politics.

It was while helping others to be free that I gained my own freedom.

Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death.

If you are terribly truthful, the ground will always move from under you, and you will have to shift with the constantly shifting truth.

The preoccupation of the novelist: how to capture the living moments, was answered by the diary. You write while you are alive. You do not preserve them in alcohol until the moment you are ready to write about them.

When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?

She walked in the shadow of Rango with a great feeling of being taken out of herself, of having no knowledge of what was happening to her, merely a pervading sense of flow.

This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.

I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.

All those who try to unveil the mysteries always have tragic lives. At the end they are always punished.

You cannot save people. You can only love them.

The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.

His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.