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.

If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.

Don't let one cloud obliterate the whole sky.

Ordinary life does not interest me.

Big Business and Politics are twins, they are the monsters who kill everything, corrupt everything.

I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.

What is love but acceptance of the other, whatever he is.