When I Desire You A Part Of

Each Night About This Time He Puts On Sadness Like A Garment And Goes On Writing.

Existence Will Not Stop Until It Gets To Beauty.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

I Do Think That Something Of The Effect I Have On People Is To Put Everything On An Edge Where They're Both Infatuated With A Kind Of Charmingness Happening In The Person Or In The Writing, And Also Flatly Terrified By A Revelation Or Acceptance Of Revelation That's Almost Happening, Never Quite Totally Happening.

Love Dares The Self To Leave Itself Behind, To Enter Into Poverty.