To be passionate. To be sane. To be loved. To create. To breathe. It's all a struggle. It brushes my finger tips.
It’s important to keep your feelings and your self worth in different places, because when feelings get hurt it shouldn’t change how you view yourself.
I happen to like the strange ones. People who look normal and live a normal life-they’re the ones you have to watch out for.
Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.
Half the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important. They don’t mean to do harm; but the harm does not interest them. Or they do not see it, or they justify it because they are absorbed in the endless struggle to think well of themselves.
For a long time, I believed the opposite of passion was death. I was wrong. Passion and death are implicit, one in the other. Past the border of a fiery life lies the netherworld. I can trace this road, which took me through places so hot the very air burned the lungs. I did not turn back. I pressed on, and eventually passed over the border, beyond which lies a place that is wordless and cold, so cold that it, like mercury, burns a freezing blue flame.
I crave a world of gorgeous and gigantic mystery, splendour, and terror, in which reigns no limitation save that of the untrammelled imagination.
You shall not twist my bones into a star’s shape, nor plant my hair as roots for the dreams of the living; and if you open my heart and run your poet’s fingers over its walls and cushions you will find it is like yours, dark.