Life is a full circle, widening until it joins the circle motions of the infinite.

Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.

The one who travels like a lover searching for a new passion is suddenly blessed with new eyes, new ears, new senses.

I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.

I had a feeling that Pandora's box contained the mysteries of woman's sensuality, so different from a man's and for which man's language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.

She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.

I don't wish power, only art -art and passion.