“All words are written in the same ink,'flower' and 'power,' say, are much the same,and though I might write 'blood, blood, blood'all over the page, the paper would not be stainednow would I bleed.”
“...words on paper are not the same as blood on hands.”
“The written word might as well have been my veins, and ink my blood.”
“If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you”
“I bleed myself to be your drink:Is not the blood of poets—ink?”
“Yet I am not writing with ordinary ink, but with red blood that dripsfrom my heart. All its wounds long scarred over have opened and itthrobs and hurts, and now and then a tear falls on the paper.”