Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.

When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.

We do not see the world as it is. We see the word as we are.

Last night I wept. I wept because the process by which I have become woman was painful. I wept because I was no longer a child with a child's blind faith. I wept because my eyes were opened to reality....I wept because I could not believe anymore and I love to believe. I can still love passionately without believing. That means I love humanly. I wept because I have lost my pain and I am not yet accustomed to its absence.

The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.

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