Death is nothing, nor life either, for that matter. To die, to sleep, to pass into nothingness, what does it matter? Everything is an illusion.
The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word.
I am a woman who enjoys herself very much; sometimes I lose, sometimes I win.
I was not content at home. . . I wanted to live like a colorful butterfly in the sun.
My dance is a sacred poem in which each movement is a word and whose every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced, for I am the temple.
I have encountered in this world riff-raff and good people. I lose. I win. I defend myself when I am attacked. I take when someone has taken from me. But I beg you to believe me; I have never done an act of espionage against France. Never. Never.
Everything is an illusion.
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