One handles truths like dynamite. Literature is one vast hypocrisy, a giant deception, treachery. All writers have concealed more than they revealed.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.
How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself?
Do not seek the because – in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions.
You don’t find love, it finds you. It’s got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what’s written in the stars.
My diary seems to keep me whole.
Balance is not to be sought by association with others; it must exist within one’s self.
I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life.
We are cruel when someone refuses to play the role in which we have cast him. We judge a person only according to his relationship towards us.
I want to be a writer who reminds others that these moments exist; I want to prove that there is infinite space, infinite meaning, infinite dimension.
Keeping a Diary all my life helped me to discover some basic elements essential to the vitality of writing.
I really believe that if I were not a writer, not a creator, not an experimenter, I might have been a very faithful wife. I think highly of faithfulness. But my temperament belongs to the writer, not to the woman.
I will not be just a tourist in a world of images.
I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.
I can elect something I love and absorb myself in it.
Compassion for our parents is the true sign of maturity.
Your eyes make me shy.
No, this was a melting together, a vanishing together into a soft, dark womb of warmth.
I love my mystery, I love the abstract world I live in, the delicate, profound, vague, obscure, voluptuously, wordless sensations I experience.