I Don't Want To Disappear.

My Heart's In My Hand, And My Hand Is Pierced, And My Hand's In The Bag, And The Bag Is Shut, And My Heart Is Caught.

Men Endowed With A Wild Imagination Should Have, In Addition, The Great Poetic Faculty Of Denying Our Universe And Its Values So That They May Act Upon It With Sovereign Ease.

Ah Those Knock-out Body Fluids: Blood, Sperm, Tears!

Slowly But Surly I Want To Strip Her Of Every Kind Of Happiness As To Make A Saint Of Her.

Beauty Has No Other Origin Than The Singular Wound, Different In Every Case, Hidden Or Visible, Which Each Man Bears Within Himself, Which He Preserves, And Into Which He Withdraws When He Would Quit The World For A Temporary But Authentic Solitude