At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.

Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.

We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.

To write at the same temperature at which I live I should write nothing but poetry.

the cynic is a coward. He foresees all barrenness so that barrenness can never surprise him.

The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation.

Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.