The richest source of creation is feeling, followed by a vision of its meaning.

The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body. Always an orchestra, and just as music traverses walls, so sensuality traverses the body and reaches up to ecstasy.

Memory is a great betrayer.

But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.

The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.

There is an ugliness in being paid for work one does not like.

Stories are the only enchantment possible, for when we begin to see our suffering as a story, we are saved.