Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me - the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.

I can elect something I love and absorb myself in it.

Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.

You live out the confusions until they become clear.

I have this weird obsession about buying books and looking at them with a smile, even if I won't read them soon. At least they are mine now.

I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.

I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness.