Philip José Farmer

“ I'm wounded! But am I like them? Am I one of the halt, the lame, the blind? Am I like that detective who swells himself into a gross human balloon because he stuffs the growing void of his hurt with food?
"Am I like our hostess, whose green wound caused her to drive away two husbands because it festered so deep she went into a delirium of unfounded imaginings about them? And then got a third who fulfilled the image she'd built up of the first two?
"And am I like that thin-lipped woman who deep-freezes her wound because she is mortally afraid of pain? ”

“ She knew I'd be so upset, I'd forget my violin case. For, as I stood fretting before the elevator door, she stepped into the hall and called, "Lover!"
I turned—then I screamed, "No! No!" I backed away, my hands spread despairingly before me.
No use. The bow she'd taken from my case strummed. The arrow struck me in the heart....
Later, when I tried to explain to Mother, I found myself forced to defend myself against her contention that I had wanted the mortal to wound me, that I was putting my own selfish desires above my duties to her and our profession. ”

“ And do I behave as some of these women here who throw themselves at every man who might give temporary healing, all the while knowing deep within them that the wound will become more poisonous?
"Is it my fault if most of these people don't cultivate their wounds, if they grow sickly and twisted and ill-smelling plants from them instead of the lovely and colorful and sweet flower that grows in me?" ”