Warmth, perfume, rugs, soft lights, books. They do not appease me. I am aware of time passing, of all the world contains that I have not seen, of all the interesting people I have not met.

There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.

What everyone forgets is that passion is not merely a heightened sensual fusion but a way of life which produces, as in the mystics, an ecstatic awareness of the whole of life.

I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.

I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.

Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.

This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.