THE MAN: We will bury her deep beneath our hearts, yours and mine — for her soul is a flower, and that we may not touch; but her spirit is wine, and … - Djuna Barnes

We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality. We sleep in a long reproachful dust against ourselves. We are full to the gorge with our own names for misery. Life, the pastures in which the night feeds and prunes the cud that nourishes us to despair. Life, the permission to know death. We were created that the earth might be made sensible of her inhuman taste; and love that the body might be so dear that even the earth should roar with it. Yes, we who are full to the gorge with misery should look well around, doubting everything seen, done, spoken, precisely because we have a word for it, and not its alchemy.

I’m a fart in a gale of wind, a humble violet, under a cow pat.

"L'amore diventa il sedimento del cuore, del tutto analogo ai "reperti" di una tomba. Come in questa si può tracciare il posto preso dal corpo, dalle vesti, dagli utensili necessari all'altra sua vita, così nel cuore dell'amante si ritrova, come un'ombra indelebile, l'impronta di ciò che ama."