Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.

Your strength is soft, indirect, delicate, tender, womanly. But it is strength just the same.

Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.

The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.

Why do I doubt her? Perhaps she is just very sensitive, and hypersensitive people are false when others doubt them; they waver. And one thinks them insincere. Yet I want to believe her. At the same time it does not seem so very important that she should love me. It is not her role. I am so filled with my love of her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.

We are beginning to see the influence of dream upon reality and reality upon dream.

I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.