Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.
Compassion for our parents is the true sign of maturity.
I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation.
I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.
I did not feel drawn to huxley. He was beautiful physically but again without vibrations or sensory antennae... and I had a painful impression of a psychic blindness. With all his science and knowledge, in the mystic world he blundered.