I flung my tongue round like a cat-o'-nine-tails so that my pleasant peaceful infant room became little less than a German concentration camp as I took out on the children what life should have got.

When love turns away, now, I don't follow it. I sit and suffer, unprotesting, until I feel the tread of another step.

I am my own Universe, I my own Professor.

Self-forgetfulness in creativity can lead to self-transcendence.

You must be true to yourself. Strong enough to be true to yourself. Brave enough to be strong enough to be true to yourself. Wise enough to be brave enough to be strong enough to shape yourself from what you actually are.

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.

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