I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.

How well I know with what burning intensity you live. You have experienced many lives already, including several you have shared with me- full rich lives from birth to death, and you just have to have these rest periods in between.

Good things happen to those who hustle.

The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.

We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.

America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.

The diary taught me that it is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately. I learned to choose the heightened moments because they are the moments of revelation.