To think of him in the middle of the day lifts me out of ordinary living.

Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.

I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.

I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth itself.

[On Paris:] A city never entirely known, yet which gives you the feeling of intimacy, of possessing it intimately.

Adolescence is like cactus.

I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.