No matter where and when you meet him you feel that he has come from some place-no matter from what place he has come-some country that he has devour… - Djuna Barnes

What do you listen to in the Protestant church? To the words of a man who has been chosen for his eloquence — and not too eloquent either, mark you, or he get’s the bum’s rush from the pulpit, for fear that in the end he will use his golden tongue for political ends. For a golden tongue is never satisfied until it has wagged itself over the destiny of a nation, and this the church is wise enough to know.

We wake from our doings in a deep sweat for that they happened in a house without an address, in a street in no town, citizened with people with no names with which to deny them. Their very lack of identity makes them ourselves. For by a street number, by a house, by a name, we cease to accuse ourselves. Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity. There is not one of us who, given an eternal incognito, a thumbprint nowhere set against our souls, would not commit rape, murder and all abominations.

Everything we can’t bear in this world, some day we find in one person, and love it all at once.