When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.
When one is pretending, the entire body revolts.
When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons.
Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.
It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.
I’m awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.
Passion gives me moments of wholeness.
The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body. Always an orchestra, and just as music traverses walls, so sensuality traverses the body and reaches up to ecstasy.
I know why familles were created, with all their imperfections. They humanize you. They are made to make you forget yourself occasionally, so that the beautiful balance of life is not destroyed.
Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.
I often see how you sob over what you destroy, how you want to stop and just worship; and you do stop, and then a moment later you are at it again with a knife, like a surgeon.
When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existence. I see in you that part of me which is you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, we share the same madness.
I’m sick of my own romanticism!
There were silences in my head. I could abandon myself completely to the pleasure of multiple relationships, to the beauty of the day, to the joys of the day. It was as if a cancer in me had ceased gnawing me. The cancer of introspection.
I wanted to remember in order to be able to return.
We are going to the moon that is not very far. Man has so much farther to go within himself.
Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself.
I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.
All those who try to unveil the mysteries always have tragic lives. At the end they are always punished.