I had been struck by the analogy between neurosis and romanticism. Romanticism was truly a parallel to neurosis. It demanded of reality an illusory world, love, an absolute which it could never obtain, and thus destroyed itself by the dream.

People who want a sane, static, measurable world take the first aspect of an event or person and stick to it, with an almost self-protective obstinacy, or by a natural limitation of their imaginations. They do not indulge in either deepening or magnifying.

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

The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.

The inner chambers of the soul are like the photographer's darkroom. Like a laboratory. One cannot stay there all the time or it becomes the solitary cell of the neurotic.

I wanted to remember in order to be able to return.

I am a winged creature who is too rarely allowed to use its wings. Ecstasies do not occur often enough.