It is an irony worth noting that of all the love songs and poems that ever were, none of them succeed in recording any sense or impression of what the beautiful being who inspired them was like. All that is recorded is the feeling of love itself. And yet for the author of the song or poem there was only one person who it could be meant for. Why is that person always lost?
– Quentin S. Crisp, from “Far-Off Things,” Morbid Tales (Tartarus Press, 2004)











