Love Is The Revelation Of The Other

My Body, Plowed By Your Body, Will Turn Into A Field Where One Is Sown And A Hundred Reaped.

What Is Art? A Violet. Is That All? An Artistic Style Is A Living Entity, A Continuous Process Of Invention. It Can Never Be Imposed From Without; Born Of The Profoundest Tendencies Within A Society, Its Direction Is To A Certain Extent Unpredictable, In Much The Same Way As The Eventual Configuration Of A Tree's Branches.

Listen To Me As One Listens To The Rain, The Years Go By, The Moments Return, Do You Hear The Footsteps In The Next Room? Not Here, Not There: You Hear Them In Another Time That Is Now, Listen To The Footsteps Of Time, Inventor Of Places With No Weight, Nowhere, Listen To The Rain Running Over The Terrace, The Night Is Now More Night In The Grove, Lightning Has Nestled Among The Leaves, A Restless Garden Adrift-go In, Your Shadow Covers This Page.

I Don't Believe That There Are Dangerous Writers: The Danger Of Certain Books Is Not In The Books Themselves But In The Passions Of Their Readers.

Erotic Acts Are Instinctive; They Fulfill A Role In Nature. The Idea Is Familiar, But It Is One That Contains A Paradox: There Is Nothing More Natural Than Sexual Desire; There Is Nothing Less Natural Than The Forms In Which It Is Made Manifest And Satisfied.