Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.
She was fully, painfully aware that very rarely did midnight strike in two hearts at once, very rarely did midnight arouse two different equal desires, and that any dislocation in this, any indifference, was an indication of disunity, of the difficulties, the impossibilities of fusion between two human beings.
For all of my patients sensuality is a giving in to 'the low side of their nature.' Puritanism is powerful and distorts their life with a total anesthesia of the senses. If you atrophy one sense, you also atrophy all the others, a sensuous and physical connection with nature, with art, with food, with other human beings.
But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.
When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.
Memory is a great betrayer.
I cannot concentrate all my friendship on any single one of my friends because no one is complete enough in himself.
If a person continues to see only giants, it means he is still seeing the world through the eyes of a child. I have a feeling that man's fear of woman comes from having first seen her as the mother, creator of men.
I write emotional algebra.
Too late for changes, too late perhaps for explanations and ideological webs, but the love goes on, the love goes on, blind to laws and warnings and even to wisdom and to fears. And whatever that love is, perhaps an illusion of a new love, I want it, I cant resist it, my whole being melts in one kiss, my knowledge melts, my fears melt, my blood dances, my legs open.
In my dreams I sleep with everybody.
[On Paris:] A city never entirely known, yet which gives you the feeling of intimacy, of possessing it intimately.
The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.
What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.
Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.
Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.
Dreams are essential to life.
When I cannot bear outer pressures anymore, I begin to put order in my belongings...As if unable to organize and control my life, I seek to exert this on the world of objects.
The unconscious can become destructive if it is disregarded and thwarted.
... and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.
Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.
... only love begets love.
Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.
Asia discovered two remedies for the cruelty of man, art and religion. America discarded both and is drowning in hate and aggressivity.
Every individual is representative of the whole . . . and should be intimately understood, and this would give a far greater understanding of mass movements and sociology.
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