I love your silences, they are like mine.

I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.

I really believe that if I were not a writer, not a creator, not an experimenter, I might have been a very faithful wife. I think highly of faithfulness. But my temperament belongs to the writer, not to the woman

The personal, if it is deep enough, becomes universal, mythical, symbolic.

I prefer empty cages, Sabina, until I find a unique bird I once saw in my dreams.

The value of the personal relationship to all things is that it creates intimacy and intimacy creates understanding and understanding creates love.

We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.