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

Only when the poet and the scientist work in unison will we have living experiences and knowledge of the marvels of the universe as they are being discovered.

Write. Write until it stops hurting.

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.

Innocence was gone from all our acts. Our habitual state of rebellion became a serious political crime.

You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.

I had been struck by the analogy between neurosis and romanticism. Romanticism was truly a parallel to neurosis. It demanded of reality an illusory world, love, an absolute which it could never obtain, and thus destroyed itself by the dream.