People living deeply have no fear of death.
Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.
The secret of joy is the mastery of pain.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.
Sometimes we reveal ourselves when we are least like ourselves.
We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
I will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.
What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.
You cannot save people. You can only love them.
Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.
Dreams are necessary to life.
I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.
The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.
I write emotional algebra.
Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.
Each contact with a human being is so rare, so precious, one should preserve it.
I sat there for three hours and did not feel the time or the boredom of our talk and its foolish disconnection. As long as I could hear his voice, I was quite lost, quite blind, quite outside my own self.
The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.