There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.

In the garden the door is always open into the "holy" - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.

Failure would only be if you had somewhere stopped growing. As far as I can see the whole duty of the artist is to keep on growing.

Is it perhaps the one necessity of love, that it be needed? And the one great human tragedy that it so rarely is?

A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.

I am not a greedy person except about flowers and plants, and then I become fanatically greedy.

The woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist it is mandatory. Unable to fulfill it, he goes mad. But when the artist is a woman she fulfills it at the expense of herself as a woman.