The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation.

We speak of the masculine and the feminine, but they are the wrong labels. It is really more a matter of poetry versus intellectualization.

He was jealous of her future, and she of his past.

For too many centuries women have been being muses to artists. I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue — that I had to do the job myself.

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

His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.

Also, I do not like the companionship of women. They are petty and personal. They hang on to their mysteries and secrets, they act and pretend. I like the character of men better.