Misery is a communicable disease.

Dancing appears glamorous, easy, delightful. But the path to paradise of the achievement is not easier than any other. There is fatigue so great that the body cries, even in its sleep. There are times of complete frustration, there are daily small deaths.

My dancing is not an attempt to interpret life in the literary sense. It is an affirmation of life through movement.

I'd rather an audience like me than dislike me, but I'd rather they disliked me than be apathetic, because that is the kiss of death.

It takes about ten years to make a mature dancer. The training is twofold. There is the study and practice of the craft in order to strengthen the muscular structure of the body. The body is shaped, disciplined, honored, and in time, trusted. The movement become clean, precise, eloquent, truthful. Movement never lies. It is a barometer telling the state of the soul's weather to all who can read it. This might be called the law of the dancer's life, the law which governs its outer aspects

I am absorbed in the magic of movement and light. Movement never lies. It is the magic of what I call the outer space of the imagination.

You see, when weaving a blanket, an Indian woman leaves a flaw in the weaving of that blanket to let the soul out.