Off fall the wife, the mother, the lover, the teacher, and the violent artist takes over. I am I alone. I belong to no one but myself. I mate with no one but the spirit. I own no land, have no kin, no friend or enemy. I have no road but this one.

There's no such thing beneath the heavens as conditions favorable to art. Art must crash through or perish.

It is not so much the content of what one says as the way in which one says it. However important the thing you say, what's the good of it if not heard or, being heard, not felt?

Education, fundamentally, is the increase of the percentage of the conscious in relation to the unconscious. It must be a developing idea.

I see the mind of the five-year-old as a volcano with two vents: destructiveness and creativeness.

Being always overavid, I demand from those I love a love equal to mine, which, being balanced people, they cannot supply.

How much of my true self I camouflage and choke in order to commend myself to him, denying the fullness of me. How often have I paraded sweetness and interest when I felt otherwise; pretended to take careful leave of him on many an occasion when I would rather have walked right out. How I've toned myself down, diluted myself to maintain his approval.