Dreams are necessary to life.
Anxiety is loves greatest killer.
The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.
myself ... is merely an instrument to connect life and a myth
She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.
I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated
I wanted to remember in order to be able to return.
I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness.
Eroticism is one of the basic means of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry.
I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.
You can either give negativity power over your life or you can choose happiness instead.
perhaps the only magician we have is the artist.
We cannot cure the evils of politics with politics.
The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.
The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.
Nowhere is inhumanity more revealed than in hospitals.
What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .
Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?
I will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.
There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.
I'm awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.
We are cruel when someone refuses to play the role in which we have cast him. We judge a person only according to his relationship towards us.
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