What is now called the nature of women is an eminently artificial thing — the result of forced repression in some directions$$$ unnatural stimulation in others.

It is given to no human being to stereotype a set of truths$$$ and walk safely by their guidance with his mind's eye closed.

Dark came early and stayed full of lights and the shouts of children.

Get back to work$$$ he would tell himself sternly. There's a garuda to get airborne.

The light was going: some cloud cover arriving$$$ as if summoned by drama.

Is it more childish and foolish to insist that there is a conspiracy or that there is not?

I wish that there was nothing to hold me here$$$ that gravity was a suggestion I could ignore.

The best way to write a novel is to do it behind your own back.

Scars are memory. Like sutures. They stitch the past to me.

When I'm dead$$$ I want to be remembered as a musician of some worth and substance.