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.

I have this weird obsession about buying books and looking at them with a smile, even if I won't read them soon. At least they are mine now.

This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.

The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.

I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness.

Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.

Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society's rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.