America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.

Memory is a great betrayer.

Paris-New York, the two high tension magnetic poles between life, life of the senses, of the spirit in Paris, and life in action in New York.

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.

I love man as creator, lover, husband, friend, but man the father I do not trust. I do not believe in man as father. I do not trust man as father.

The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair. I will be the one woman you will never have...excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.

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