The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.

Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.

To withhold from living is to die ... the more you give of yourself to life the more life nourishes you.

Again I take a taxi to Clichy address, but feel that I do not want to go on loving Henry more actively than he loves me (having realized that nobody will ever love me in that overabundant, overexpressive, overthoughtful, overhuman way I love people), and so I will wait for him. So I ask taxi driver to drop me at the Galeries Lafayette, where I begin to look for a new hat and to shop for Christmas. Pride? I don't know. A kind of wise retreat. I need people too much. So I bury my gigantic defect, my overflow of love, under trivialities, like a child. I amuse myself with a new hat.

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

I love her for what she has dared to be, for her hardness, her cruelty, her egoism, her perverseness, her demoniac destructiveness. She would crush me to ashes without hesitation. She is a personality created to the limit. I worship her courage to hurt, and I am willing to be sacrificed to it. She will add the sum of me to her. She will be June plus all that I contain.

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