The history of my life is the history of the struggle between an overwhelming urge to write and a combination of circumstances bent on keeping me from it.

She was incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one - the beauty of her body was the essence of her soul. She was that unity sought for by philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in the contemplation of herself.

Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.

For the moment I can only cry out that I have lost my splendid mirage. Come back, come back, O glittering and white!

She wanted to exist only as a conscious flower, prolonging and preserving herself