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.
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.