She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.

I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.

notes fly so much farther than words. There is no other way to reach the infinite.

Where the myth fails, human love begins. Then we love a human being, not our dream, but a human being with flaws.

In every relationship, sooner or later, there is a court scene. Accusations, counter-accusations, a trial, a verdict.

The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.

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