...the problem of space remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her. The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.

Kiss me out of desire, but not consolation.

Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.

Many farcical, illogical, incomprehensible transactions are subsumed by the mania of lust.

Written By Philip Roth

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