The Rabbit In The Moon

What a caterpillar calls the end of the world we call a butterfly.

I’m tired, tired of being enclosed here. I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really with it, and in it.

How could you become new, if you had not first become ashes?

She was her father’s daughter but she’d inherited her mother’s black anger. It burned through her sometimes like a chemical fire, brief and devastating and utterly unstoppable.

Feral moments so valuable you never share them with anyone.

I have the gift of desiring, of inventing more and more desires, of never knowing satiation and dullness. And I am cursed with the lack of genius for renunciation.

To guide someone through the halls of hell is not the same as love.

This witch had been crafted from the darkness between the stars.

I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.

Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

Secrecy flows through you, a different kind of blood.

The Portuguese call it saudade: a longing for something so indefinite as to be indefinable. Love affairs, miseries of life, the way things were, people already dead, those who left and the ocean that tossed them on the shores of a different land — all things born of the soul that can only be felt.

I adore my own lost being, my imperfect substance, my silver set and my eternal loss.

...the past gives you an identity and the future holds the promise of salvation, of fulfillment in whaterver form. Both are illusions.

By night, beloved, tie your heart to mine and let them both in dreams defeat the darkness.

I have lived with several Zen masters -- all of them cats.

One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon - instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today.