I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.
Don’t let one cloud obliterate the whole sky.
The monster I kill every day is the monster of realism. The monster who attacks me every day is destruction. Out of the duel comes the transformation. I turn destruction into creation over and over again.
The imagination is far better at inventing tortures than life because the imagination is a demon within us and it knows where to strike, where it hurts. It knows the vulnerable spot, and life does not, our friends and lovers do not, because seldom do they have the imagination equal to the task.
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
We have been poisoned by fairy tales.
I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.
We are never trapped unless we choose to be.
The only transformer and alchemist that turns everything into gold is love. The only magic against death, aging, ordinary life, is love.
The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.
We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art – we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.
Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you.
What everyone forgets is that passion is not merely a heightened sensual fusion but a way of life which produces, as in the mystics, an ecstatic awareness of the whole of life.
I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.
I am a winged creature who is too rarely allowed to use its wings. Ecstasies do not occur often enough.
It is in the movements of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately.
Coming near him like a ballet dancer she took a leap towards him, and he, frightened by her vehemence, and fearing that she would crash against him, instinctively became absolutely rigid, and she felt herself embracing a statue.
Then at certain moments I remember one of his words and I suddenly feel the sensual woman flaring up, as if violently caressed. I say the word to myself, with joy. It is at such a moment that my true body lives.