I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
So many people were shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.