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

Paris-New York, the two high tension magnetic poles between life, life of the senses, of the spirit in Paris, and life in action in New York.

I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.

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

All the art of analysis consists in saying a truth only when the other person is ready for it, has been prepared for it by an organic process of gradation and evolution.

I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.

Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be...including our perception. Of it