Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s.

Life, religion and art all converge in Bali. They have no word in their language for 'artist' or 'art.' Everyone is an artist.

Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.

Often, though, the passivity of the woman's role weighs on me, suffocates me. Rather than wait for his pleasure, I would like to take it, to run wild. Is it that which pushes me into lesbianism? It terrifies me. Do women act thus? Does June go to Henry when she wants him? Does she mount him? Does she wait for him? He guides my inexperienced hands. It is like a forest fire, to be with him. New places of my body are aroused and burnt. He is incendiary. I leave him in an unquenchable fever.

Sexual intercourse... a joyous, joyous, joyous, joyous impaling of woman on man's sensual mast.

Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.

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.