Anxiety is loves greatest killer.
I don’t hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you into me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.
You are the only woman who ever answered the demands of my imagination.
Will you come down and kiss me good night?
Love men and women not for their strength but their softness, not for their fullness but their hunger, not for their plenty but their need.
I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source.
Mature people relate to each other without the need to merge.
I have seen romanticism outlast the realistic. I have seen men forget the beautiful women they have possessed, forget the prostitutes, and remember the first woman they idolized, the woman they could never have. The woman who aroused them romantically holds them.
It is easy to love and there are so many ways to do it.
Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?
My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure.
To change skins, evolve into new cycles, I feel one has to learn to discard. If one changes internally one should not continue to live with the same objects. They reflect one’s mind and psyche of yesterday. I throw away what has no dynamic, living use.
One must be thrust out of a finished cycle in life, and that leap is the most difficult to make – to part with one’s faith, one’s love, when one would prefer to renew the faith and recreate the passion.
I was thinking of my patients, and how the worst moment for them was when they discovered they were masters of their own fate. It was not a matter of bad or good luck. When they could no longer blame fate, they were in despair.
Your strength is soft, indirect, delicate, tender, womanly. But it is strength just the same.
I cannot concentrate all my friendship on any single one of my friends because no one is complete enough in himself.
The love of only one man or one woman is an enclosure.
Strange, isn’t it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.
We are all engaged in the task of peeling off the false selves, the programmed selves, the selves created by our families, our culture, our religions. It is an enormous task because the history of women has been as incompletely told as the history of blacks.