The monster I kill every day is the monster of realism. The monster who attacks me every day is destruction. Out of the duel comes the transformation. I turn destruction into creation over and over again.

At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.

Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.

Also, I do not like the companionship of women. They are petty and personal. They hang on to their mysteries and secrets, they act and pretend. I like the character of men better.

I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.

I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness.

I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.