I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.

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.

There is an ugliness in being paid for work one does not like.

I reserve the right to love many different people at once, and to change my prince often.

America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.

Many couples, many people, are not living with real human beings, but with their ghosts. Who has not followed for years the spell of a particular tone of voice, from voice to voice, as the fetishist follows a beautiful foot, scarcely seeing the woman herself? A voice, a mouth, an eye, all stemming from the original fountain of our first desire, directing it, enslaving us, until we choose to unravel the fatal web and free ourselves.

Dreams are essential to life.