Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me. I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

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.

Self-destructive patterns cause as much suffering as outer catastrophes.

I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.

We love best those who are, or act for us, a self we do not wish to be or act out.

The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body.

I must know, he thinks. It must be clear to me. There is a world which is closed to him, a world of shadings, gradations, nuances, and subtleties. He is a genius and yet he is too explicit. June slips between his fingers. You cannot posses without loving.