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

Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.

One discovers that destiny can be diverted, that one does not have to remain in bondage to the first wax imprint made on childhood sensibilities. Once the deforming mirror has been smashed, there is a possibility of wholeness. There is a possibility of joy.

Anxiety is love's greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.

Often, though, the passivity of the woman's role weighs on me, suffocates me. Rather than wait for his pleasure, I would like to take it, to run wild. Is it that which pushes me into lesbianism? It terrifies me. Do women act thus? Does June go to Henry when she wants him? Does she mount him? Does she wait for him? He guides my inexperienced hands. It is like a forest fire, to be with him. New places of my body are aroused and burnt. He is incendiary. I leave him in an unquenchable fever.

I see enormous loves growing immense and finally crushing me.

Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.