For too many centuries women have been being muses to artists. I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue — that I had to do the job myself.

There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.

America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.

One may gain one truth at the expense of another.

They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.

Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.