I had a feeling that Pandora's box contained the mysteries of woman's sensuality, so different from a man's and for which man's language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.

The enemy of a love is never outside, it's not a man or woman, it's what we lack in ourselves.

There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through.

It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.

I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.

Self-destructive patterns cause as much suffering as outer catastrophes.

Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go.