Modern dance isn't anything except one thing in my mind: the freedom of women in America.

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

The next time you look into the mirror, just look at the way the ears rest next to the head; look at the way the hairline grows; think of all the little bones in your wrist. It is a miracle. And the dance is a celebration of that miracle.

Dance is the landscape of man's soul.

I don't think in art there is ever a precedent; each moment is a new one and terrifying and threatening and bursting with hope.

It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.

There is fatigue so great that the body cries, even in its sleep.