I need this wild life, this freedom.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.

Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.

What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.