Music Was Invented To Confirm Human Loneliness.

It Takes A Lot Of Energy And A Lot Of Neurosis To Write A Novel. If You Were Really Sensible, You'd Do Something Else.

The Whole Mediterranean, The Sculpture, The Palm, The Gold Beads, The Bearded Heroes, The Wine, The Ideas, The Ships, The Moonlight, The Winged Gorgons, The Bronze Men, The Philosophers - All Of It Seems To Rise In The Sour, Pungent Taste Of These Black Olives Between The Teeth. A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.

Every Man Is Made Of Clay And Diamond, And No Woman Can Nourish Both.

What Are Stars But Points In The Body Of God Where We Insert The Healing Needles Of Our Terror And Longing?

I Have Decided To Leave Clea’s Last Letter Un-answered. I No Longer Wish To Coerce Anyone, To Make Promises, To Think Of Life In Terms Of Compacts, Resolutions, Covenants. It Will Be Up To Clea To Interpret My Silence According To Her Own Needs And Desires, To Come To Me If She Has Need Or Not, As The Case May Be. Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?