We all live in a house on fire$$$ no fire department to call; no way out$$$ just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped$$$ locked in it.

But there are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark -- that sort of make everything else seem -- unimportant.

I cannot write any sort of story unless there is at least one character in it for whom I have physical desire.

What is straight? A line can be straight$$$ or a street$$$ but the human heart$$$ oh$$$ no$$$ it's curved like a road through mountains.

Symbols are nothing but the natural speech of drama.

I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.

You know$$$ then that the public Somebody you are when you 'have a name' is a fiction created with mirrors and that the only somebody worth being is the solitary and unseen you that existed from your first breath.

My only point$$$ the only point that I'm making$$$ is life has got to be allowed to continue even after the dream of life is--all--over....

I know I fib a good deal. After all$$$ a woman's charm is fifty per cent illusion$$$ but when a thing is important I tell the truth.

You lethargic$$$ waiting upon me$$$ waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you$$$ shaken by your beauty. Shaken by your beauty. Shaken.