Mature people relate to each other without the need to merge.

The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

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

Through love, through friendship, a heart lives more than one life.

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

I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.