Woman does not forget she needs the fecundator, she does not forget that everything that is born of her is planted in her.

Because history is only an aggregate of personal hostilities, personal prejudices, personal blindness and irrationality, there are times when we have to live against it.

We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.

We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.

What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?

I had a feeling that Pandora's box contained the mysteries of woman's sensuality, so different from a man's and for which man's language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.

I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.