If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.

Memory is a great betrayer.

The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation.

I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art--we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.