Jeanne, I fell asleep among the paintings, where I could sit for many days worshipping your portrait. I fell in love with your portrait, Jeanne, because it will never change. I have such a fear of seeing you grow old, Jeanne, I fell in love with an unchanging you that will never be taken away from me. I was wishing you would die, so that no one could take you away from me, and I would love the painting of you as you would look eternally.

Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.

I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .

How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.

We speak of the masculine and the feminine, but they are the wrong labels. It is really more a matter of poetry versus intellectualization.

The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.

Poetry is the alchemy which teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.