I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.
Experience teaches acceptance of the imperfect as life.
Analysis does not take into account the creative products of neurotic desires.
I needed to live, but I also needed to record what I lived.
One handles truths like dynamite.
My life is slowed up by thought and the need to understand what I am living.
This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.
All that is sacred and taboo in the world are meaningless.
I miss the animal buoyancy of New York, the animal vitality. I did not mind that it had no meaning and no depth.
If one’s conscious life is too rigid, too regimented, then the surface may crack at times, and we are unprepared for the strange emotions or sensations we experience.
Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society’s rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.
A man who lives unrelated to other human beings dies. But a man who lives unrelated to himself also dies.
Anxiety is love’s greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.
Adolescence is like cactus.
But the artist persists because he has the will to create, and this is the magic power which can transform and transfigure and transpose and which will ultimately be transmitted to others.
Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.
Each friend represents a world in us.
I believe the lasting revolution comes from deep changes in ourselves which influence our collective life.
Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.
I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated.