Tropical nights are hammocks for lovers.

Nature forms us for ourselves, not for others; to be, not to seem.

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

The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer.

In my dreams I sleep with everybody.

Many couples, many people, are not living with real human beings, but with their ghosts. Who has not followed for years the spell of a particular tone of voice, from voice to voice, as the fetishist follows a beautiful foot, scarcely seeing the woman herself? A voice, a mouth, an eye, all stemming from the original fountain of our first desire, directing it, enslaving us, until we choose to unravel the fatal web and free ourselves.

I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.