I Carry The Bars Within Me.

Love Is, That You Are The Knife Which I Plunge Into Myself.

I'm Thinking Only Of My Illness And My Health, Though Both, The First As Well As The Second, Are You.

There's No Quiet Place Here On Earth For Our Love, Not In The Village And Not Anywhere Else, So I Picture A Grave, Deep And Narrow, In Which We Embrace As If Clamped Together, I Bury My Face Against You, You Yours Against Me, And No One Will Ever See Us.

If The Literature We Are Reading Does Not Wake Us, Why Then Do We Read It? A Literary Work Must Be An Ice-axe To Break The Sea Frozen Inside Us.

The State We Find Ourselves In Is Sinful Quite Independent Of Guilt.