Innocence was gone from all our acts. Our habitual state of rebellion became a serious political crime.

To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.

Last night I wept. I wept because the process by which I have become woman was painful. I wept because I was no longer a child with a child's blind faith. I wept because my eyes were opened to reality....I wept because I could not believe anymore and I love to believe. I can still love passionately without believing. That means I love humanly. I wept because I have lost my pain and I am not yet accustomed to its absence.

Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.

atrophy of feeling creates criminals.

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

I want to hear raucous music, to see faces, to brush against bodies, to drink fiery Benedictine. Beautiful women and handsome men arouse fierce desires in me. I want to dance. I want drugs. I want to know perverse people, to be intimate with them. I never look at naive faces. I want to bite into life, and to be torn by it.