“Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals,And women, battered like overused proverbs.”

“If you likeI'll be furious flesh elemental,or- changing to tones that the sunset arouses- if you like-I'll be extraordinary gentle,not a man but - a cloud in trousers.”

“Gentle souls!You play your love on the violin. The crude ones play it on the drums violently.But can you turn yourselves inside out, like meAnd become just two lips entirely?”

“You entered,Abrupt like “Take it!”,Mauling suede gloves, you tarried,And said:“You know,-I’m soon getting married.” Get married then.It’s all right,I can handle it.You see - I’m calm, of course!Like the pulse Of a corpse. Remember?You used to say:“Jack London,Money,Love and ardour,”--I saw one thing only:You were La Gioconda,Which had to be stolen! And someone stole you. Again in love, I shall start gambling,With fire illuminating the arch of my eyebrows.And why not?Sometimes, the homeless ramblersWill seek to find shelter in a burnt down house! You’re mocking me?“You’ve fewer emeralds of madnessthan a beggar kopecks, there’s no disproving this!”But rememberPompeii came to end thusWhen somebody teased Vesuvius! Hey!Gentlemen!You care forSacrilege,CrimeAnd war.But have you seenThe frightening terrorOf my faceWhenIt’s Perfectly calm? And I feel-“I”Is too small to fit me.Someone inside me is getting smothered.”

“Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.The Milky Way streams silver through the night. I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegramsI have no cause to wake or trouble you. And, as they say, the incident is closed.Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind. Now you and I are quits. Why bother thenTo balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts. Behold what quiet settles on the world. Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation.”

“أقسم ألا أتحدث بعد الان باللسان المشين للتعقل والحصافة ...الان يمكن للمرء أن ينهض و ينطق , فتتردد كلماتة عبر العصور و التاريخ والبشرية جمعاء”

“They stood brow to brow, brown to white, black to black, he supporting her elbows, she playing her limp light fingers over his collarbone, and how he "ladored,"he said, the dark aroma of her hair blending with crushed lily stalks, Turkish cigarettes and the lassitude that comes from "lass." "No, no, don't," she said, I must wash, quick-quick, Ada must wash; but for yet another immortal moment they stood embraced in the hushed avenue, enjoying as they had never enjoyed before, the "happy-forever" feeling at the end of never-ending fairy tales.”