I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.

This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.

To love and to labor is the sum of living.

Either one fails in one's art or in one's life.

Introspection is a devouring monster. You have to feed it with much material, much experience, many people, many places, many loves, many creations, and then it ceases feeding on you.

And silence. She liked the silence most of all. The silence in which the body, senses, the instincts, are more alert, more powerful, more sensitized, live a more richly perfumed and intoxication life, instead of transmuting into thoughts, words, into exquisite abstractions, mathematics of emotion in place of violent impact, the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight.

I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .