What everyone forgets is that passion is not merely a heightened sensual fusion but a way of life which produces, as in the mystics, an ecstatic awareness of the whole of life.

Again I take a taxi to Clichy address, but feel that I do not want to go on loving Henry more actively than he loves me (having realized that nobody will ever love me in that overabundant, overexpressive, overthoughtful, overhuman way I love people), and so I will wait for him. So I ask taxi driver to drop me at the Galeries Lafayette, where I begin to look for a new hat and to shop for Christmas. Pride? I don't know. A kind of wise retreat. I need people too much. So I bury my gigantic defect, my overflow of love, under trivialities, like a child. I amuse myself with a new hat.

I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.

Jazz is the music of the body.

The way to recognize a dead word is that it exudes boredom.

I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ

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