I love words very much. I’ve always loved to talk, and I’ve always love words – the words that rest in your mouth, what words mean and how you taste them and so on. And for me the spoken word can be used almost as a gesture.
Nobody cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up and dance. Great dancers are great because of their passion.
Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.
In the end, it all comes down to the art of breathing.
Dancers are the messengers of the gods.
Dance is a song of the body. Either of joy or pain.
Dancing is just discovery, discovery, discovery.
No animal ever has an ugly body until it is domesticated. It is the same with the human body.
The next time you look into the mirror, just look at the way the ears rest next to the head; look at the way the hairline grows; think of all the little bones in your wrist. It is a miracle. And the dance is a celebration of that miracle.
The reason dance has held such an ageless magic for the world is that it has been the symbol of the performance of living.
The unique must be fulfilled.
The center of the stage is where I am.
I am absorbed in the magic of movement and light. Movement never lies. It is the magic of what I call the outer space of the imagination.
The secret to dancing is that it is about everything except dancing.
The spine is the tree of life. Respect it.
In a dancer, there is a reverence for such forgotten things as the miracle of the small beautiful bones and their delicate strength.
Censorship is the height of vanity.
A dancer must listen to his body and pay homage to it. Behind the movement lies this terrible, driving passion, this necessity. I won’t settle for anything less.
Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.
Think of the magic of that foot, comparatively small, upon which your whole weight rests. It’s a miracle, and the dance is a celebration of that miracle.