I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.
If I love you it means we share the same fantasies, the same madnesses
When you possess light within, you see it externally.
willingness to explore everything is a sign of strength. The weak ones have prejudices. Prejudices are a protection.
Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
it was while helping others to be free that I gained my own freedom.
With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness... something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.
I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.
We are never trapped unless we choose to be.
I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.
Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me. I escape, one way or another. No more walls.
To withhold from living is to die ... the more you give of yourself to life the more life nourishes you.
There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.
Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.
We have been poisoned by fairy tales.
We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.
My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure.
I don't hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you into me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.
Whenever you do something that is not aligned with the yearning or your soul—you create suffering.
You have a right to experiment with your life. You will make mistakes. And they are right too.
You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you; I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we shared, at some moment, the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage.
We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art--we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.
I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.
Write. Write until it stops hurting.
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