[in the]..curious way that my idealism has been mixed with my fatalism, so that I can possess the soul of a dreamer and that of a cynic at the same time......I possess a power of magic...[to] destroy the balance of a well-designed destiny with my diabolical mind.
Each friend represents a world in us.
Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.
You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.
I have no brakes on...analysis is for those who are paralyzed by life.
I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.
Perhaps a child, like a cat, is so much inside of himself that he does not see himself in the mirror.
destruction is ultimately self-destruction.
It is difficult to live with the pure. They do not condemn you; they forgive you. This forgiveness is more terrible than a judgment.
Introspection is a devouring monster. You have to feed it with much material, much experience, many people, many places, many loves, many creations, and then it ceases feeding on you.
It's all right for a woman to be, above all, human. I am a woman first of all.
Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.
The ivory tower of the artist may be the only stronghold left for human values, cultural treasures, man’s cult of beauty.
In every relationship, sooner or later, there is a court scene. Accusations, counter-accusations, a trial, a verdict.
I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.
The complaints of the child in us will never cease lamenting until it is consoled, answered, understood. Only then will it lie still in us, like our fears. It will die in peace and leave us what the child leaves to the man - the sense of wonder.
When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?
The love of only one man or one woman is an enclosure.
I needed to live, but I also needed to record what I lived.
Tropical nights are hammocks for lovers.
If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.
You are so terribly nimble, so clever. I distrust your cleverness. You make a wonderful pattern, everything is in its place, it looks convincingly clear, too clear. And meanwhile, where are you? Not on the clear surface of your ideas, but you have already sunk deeper, into darker regions, so that one only thinks one has been given all your thoughts, one only imagines you have emptied yourself in that clarity. But there are layers and layers - you're bottomless, unfathomable. Your clearness is deceptive. You are the thinker who arouses most confusion in me, most doubt, most disturbance.
In my childhood diary I wrote: “I have decided that it is better not to love anyone, because when you love people, then you have to be separated from them, and that hurts too much.
We are going to the moon that is not very far. Man has so much farther to go within himself.
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