Violence is a symptom of impotence.
Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.
The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
Nature forms us for ourselves, not for others; to be, not to seem.
I want to do things so wild with you that I don’t know how to say them.
The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.
Perhaps a child, like a cat, is so much inside of himself that he does not see himself in the mirror.
I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.
The Frenchman, by nature, is sensuous and sensitive. He has intelligence, which makes him tired of life sooner than other kinds of men. He is not athletic: he sees the futility of the pursuit of fame; the climate at times depresses him.
The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truths is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.
We celebrate peace. Yet we pay no attention to the ways of curing aggression in human beings. And when one sees in psychoanalysis hostility disappearing as people conquer their fears, one wonders if the cure is not there.
I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have shared my kingdom with you.
I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.
He was jealous of her future, and she of his past.
Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.
We efface an hour by passionate love, without twists, without aftertaste. When it is finished, it is not finished, we lie still in each other’s arms lulled by our love, by tenderness – sensuality in which the whole being can participate.
I believe that in judging our actions we are more severe than professional judges. We judge not only our actions, but our thoughts, our intentions, our secret curses, our hidden hate.
For too many centuries women have been being muses to artists. I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue – that I had to do the job myself.
The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation.
At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.