Descendants of pigeons once fed by Keats, Byron, George Sand, Chopin and many other famous lovers are still being fed, and the sudden sound when they all rise together, frightened away, is like the sound of giant sails flapping.

I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated

the cynic is a coward. He foresees all barrenness so that barrenness can never surprise him.

What is love but acceptance of the other, whatever he is.

I will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.

The one who travels like a lover searching for a new passion is suddenly blessed with new eyes, new ears, new senses.

Stories are the only enchantment possible, for when we begin to see our suffering as a story, we are saved.