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Depression began its ascent when the disciplinary model for behaviors, the rules of authority and observance of taboos that gave social classes as well as both sexes a specific destiny, broke against norms that invited us to undertake personal initiative by enjoining us to be ourselves. . . . The depressed individual is unable to measure up; he is tired of having to become himself.

Each window was now a framed phantasmagoria of churning and forever changing shapes and colors, fabulous depths and distances opening to the fascinated eye, grotesque transfigurations that suggested a purely supernatural order, a systemless cosmogony reeling with all the caprice of the immaterial.

What repelled me appeared as a rainbow in which all natural color had been mutated into a painfully lush iridescence by some prism fantastically corrupted in its form.

The centre of the painting, what drew the eye and commanded the attention, was the woman’s vulva: all the life of the painting was concentrated there. A slash of pink, startling against the mossy greens and browns, seemed to touch a nerve in my own groin.
One immediate, furious thought rose in my mind: How could she expose herself like that?

The women's home offers no more protection against the god than the wild outdoors.

Thus, while Ovid prefers to enhance the new creation of humanity by comparison with (human) artistry, he resorts to natural science and the theory of elements for the re-creation of animals

I searched everywhere for a proof of reality, when all the while I understood quite well that the standard of reality had changed. For the longer I looked the more certain I became that these figures were real and living, though perhaps not according to the standards that the camera and the biologist would insist upon.

there is not much in the autumn wood to make you smile but it is not yet, not quite yet, the saddest time of the year. Only, there is a haunting sense of the imminent cessation of being; the year, in turning, turns in on itself. Introspective weather, a sickroom hush.

All the senses, including vision, can be regarded as extensions of the sense of touch – as specialisations of the skin. They define the interface between the skin and the environment – between the opaque interiority of the body and the exteriority of the world.

Or perhaps it was simply that things were happening inside her, terrible things, which no one else could even guess at, and thus it was impossible for her to engage with everyday life at the same time.

Dreams overlaid with dreams, a palimpsest of horror. Violent acts perpetrated by night. A hazy feeling I can’t pin down…but remembered as blood-chillingly definite.
Intolerable loathing, so long suppressed. Loathing I’ve always tried to mask with affection. But now the mask is coming off.

‘My body – a tumor that was once delivered from the body of another tumor, a lump of disease that is always boiling with its own disease. And my mind – another disease, the disease of a disease. Everywhere my mind sees the disease of other minds and other bodies, these other organisms that are only other diseases, an absolute nightmare of the organism.

But I had not slept for two nights. I was tired and felt the ache of every broken dream I had ever carried within me. Perhaps I would one day seek out another town in another land where I could make an end of it, or at least where I could wait in a fatalistic delirium for the end to come. Now it was time to just walk away in silence.

بدن تمام شد
و من تمام،
و احتیاج بال
به گودال

بهار دل‌انگیز را دگر عطر و بویی نیست
زمان دمادم مرا به کام می‌کشد
چون برف بیکران که پیکر سرمازده را
من از بالا دایره‌ی زمین را نظاره می‌کنم
و در آن دگر پناه کلبه‌ای را نمی جویم
ای بهمن آیا به گاه سقوط، مرا می‌بری با خود؟

دوست می‌دارمت آن‌دم که نشاط
از چهره‌ی گردآلوده‌ات رخت میبندد
آن دم که غرق در کین می‌شود دلت
و سایه‌ی هولناک گذشته
بر امروز تو بال می‌گسترد

فرشته‌ی سرشار از نشاط، تو با رنج آشنایی؟
با شرم و پشیمانی، زاری و ملال
و هراس گنگ شبهای هولناکی که در سینه دل را
چنان میفشارد که گویی کاغذی را مچاله کنند

من از وصیت نامه و گور بیزارم
پیش از آنکه اشکی از مردمان طلب کنم
مرا خوشتر آنکه تا زنده‌ام زاغان را فراخوانم
تا از سراپای پیکر ناپاکم خون روانه کنند

مغز من هرم و دخمه‌ی عظیمی است
که مردگانش از مردگان قبرستان بی چیزان بیشتر است

و انبوه گنگ عنکبوتان پلید
بر اعماق مغز ما تار می‌تنند