I told myself, ‘All I want is a normal life.’ But was that true? I wasn’t so sure. Because there was a part of me that enjoyed hating school, and the drama of not going, the potential consequences, whatever they were. I was intrigued by the unknown. I was even slightly thrilled that my mother was such a mess. Had I become addicted to crisis? I traced my finger along the windowsill. ‘Want something normal, want something normal, want something normal,’ I told myself. -burroughs
And do not pity C.Q. One had to choose between him and H.H., and one wanted H.H. to exist at least a couple of months longer, so as to have him make you live in the minds of later generations. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.
“a muse is ever evolving, ever changing, ever elusive. the perfect woman is out there, and she is many things, many moods, many women. but the one i am chasing is ever evolving, so i must travel the world to catch a glimpse of her”—j.galliano
the great thing about studio 54 was it wasn’t gay and it wasn’t straight. it was everything. it was uptown and downtown. you’d see UN diplomats and you’d see transvestites all together. people danced in groups, they danced alone, they danced two girls, they danced two boys. there was a freedom to that. now everything’s an uptown black lesbian bar, or a downtown chinese gay bar. - bob colacello
When my mother was 21 she was a prisoner of war in Germany, and she went to a concentration camp, and she stayed for 14 months. When she came back she weighed 49 pounds and the doctors said she couldn’t have children for many, many years; she had gained some weight and was close to being normal after six months, but the doctor still said it wasn’t time. And two years later I was born. So in many ways I am my mother’s revenge. She always said that she didn’t die so I could be born.
the brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface: and why not? any love is natural and beautiful that lies within a person’s nature; only hypocrites would hold a man responsible for what he loves, emotional illiterates and those of righteous envy, who, in their agitated concern, mistake so frequently the arrow pointing to heaven for the one that leads to hell.
…there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.
“i was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan in August of 1974”—middlesex
Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye.