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I Will Not Be Just A Tourist In The World Of Images, Just Watching Images Passing By Which I Cannot Live In, Make Love To, Possess As Permanent Sources Of Joy And Ecstasy.

-Anais Nin

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I Will Not Be

Anais Nin

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I Will Not Be Just A Tourist In The World Of Images, Just Watching Images Passing By Which I Cannot Live In, Make Love To, Possess As Permanent Sources Of Joy And Ecstasy.

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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

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At First She Beckoned And Lured One Into Her World; Then, She Blurred The Passageways, Confused All The Images, As If To Elude Detection.

The Impetus To Grow And Live Intensely Is So Powerful In Me I Cannot Resist It. I Will Work, I Will Love My Husband, But I Will Fulfill Myself.

What Everyone Forgets Is That Passion Is Not Merely A Heightened Sensual Fusion But A Way Of Life Which Produces, As In The Mystics, An Ecstatic Awareness Of The Whole Of Life.

I Believe That In Judging Our Actions We Are More Severe Than Professional Judges. We Judge Not Only Our Actions, But Our Thoughts, Our Intentions, Our Secret Curses, Our Hidden Hate.

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To Mistake Ugliness For Reality Is One Of The Frauds Of The Realistic School [of Writing]. A Hunger For The Unknown And An Aspiration Toward Beauty Were Inseparable From Civilization. In America The Word Art Was Distorted To Mean Artificial.

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I Know No Joy As Great As A Moment Of Rushing Into A New Love, No Ecstasy Like That Of A New Love.

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I Will Not Adjust Myself To The World. I Am Adjusted To Myself.

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Our Love Of Each Other Was Like Two Long Shadows Kissing Without Hope Of Reality.

People Living Deeply Have No Fear Of Death.

In My Dreams I Sleep With Everybody.

I Had A Feeling That Pandora's Box Contained The Mysteries Of Woman's Sensuality, So Different From A Man's And For Which Man's Language Was So Inadequate. The Language Of Sex Had Yet To Be Invented. The Language Of The Senses Was Yet To Be Explored.

Adolescence Is Like Cactus.

Innocence Was Gone From All Our Acts. Our Habitual State Of Rebellion Became A Serious Political Crime.

When I First Met Him, He Did Not Care If A Friend Did Not Fit Into His World, Because At That Time His World Had Not Been Born Yet.

The Leaf Fall Of His Words, The Stained Glass Hues Of His Moods, The Rust In His Voice, The Smoke In His Mouth, His Breath On My Vision Like Human Breath Blinding A Mirror.

I Cheat Him, I Deceive Him, Yet The World Does Not Sink In Sulphur-colored Mists. Madness Conquers. I Can No Longer Put My Mosaics Together. I Just Cry And Laugh.

[on Paris:] A City Never Entirely Known, Yet Which Gives You The Feeling Of Intimacy, Of Possessing It Intimately.

A Big Enough Artist, I Say, Can Eat Anything, Must Eat Everything And Then Alchemize It. Only The Feeble Writer Is Afraid Of Expansion.

Age Does Not Protect You From Love. But Love, To Some Extent, Protects You From Age.

I Only Regret That Everybody Wants To Deprive Me Of The Journal, Which Is The Only Steadfast Friend I Have, The Only One Which Makes My Life Bearable, Because My Happiness With Human Beings Is So Precarious, My Confiding Moods Rare, And The Least Sign Of Non-interest Is Enough To Silence Me. In The Journal I Am At Ease.

The Final Lesson A Writer Learns Is That Everything Can Nourish The Writer.

A Trite Word Is An Overused Word Which Has Lost Its Identity Like An Old Coat In A Second-hand Shop. The Familiar Grows Dull And We No Longer See, Hear, Or Taste It.

Societies In Decline Have No Use For Visionaries.

Our Life Is Composed Greatly From Dreams, From The Unconscious, And They Must Be Brought Into Connection With Action. They Must Be Woven Together.

Collective Unconscious

There Is A Fissure In My Vision And Madness Will Always Rush Through.

The Dream Was Always Running Ahead Of Me. To Catch Up, To Live For A Moment In Unison With It, That Was The Miracle.

I Want To Fall In Love In Such A Way That The Mere Sight Of A Man, Even A Block Away From Me, Will Shake And Pierce Me, Will Weaken Me, And Make Me Tremble And Soften And Melt.

Falling In Love

Passion Gives Me Moments Of Wholeness.

Since Desire Always Goes Towards That Which Is Our Direct Opposite, It Forces Us To Love That Which Will Make Us Suffer.

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.

The Truly Faithless One Is The One Who Makes Love To Only A Fraction Of You. And Denies The Rest.

We Did Not Touch Each Other. We Were Both Leaning Over The Abyss.

I Looked Upon A Clock To Find The Truth. The Hours Were Passing Like Ivory Chess Figures, Striking Piano Notes, And The Minutes Raced On Wires Mounted Like Tin Soldiers. Hours Like Tall Ebony Women With Gongs Between Their Legs, Tolling Continuously So That I Could Not Count Them. I Heard The Rolling Of My Heart-beats; I Heard The Footsteps Of My Dreams, And The Beat Of Time Was Lost Among Them Like The Face Of Truth.

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I Am Aware Of Being In A Beautiful Prison, From Which I Can Only Escape By Writing.

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The Body Is An Instrument Which Only Gives Off Music When It Is Used As A Body. Always An Orchestra, And Just As Music Traverses Walls, So Sensuality Traverses The Body And Reaches Up To Ecstasy.

Dreams Pass Into The Reality Of Action. From The Actions Stems The Dream Again; And This Interdependence Produces The Highest Form Of Living.

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One Must Be Thrust Out Of A Finished Cycle In Life, And That Leap Is The Most Difficult To Make - To Part With One's Faith, One's Love, When One Would Prefer To Renew The Faith And Recreate The Passion.

The Ivory Tower Of The Artist May Be The Only Stronghold Left For Human Values, Cultural Treasures, Man’s Cult Of Beauty.

Although I Love A Rich Life, I Hate An Overcrowded Life. I Believe In Rumination And Lose Half The Beauty Of All Things When I Am Deprived Of The Time To Ruminate.

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Dreams Are Necessary To Life.

I Have An Attitude Now That Is Immovable. I Shall Remain Outside Of The World, Beyond The Temporal, Beyond All The Organizations Of The World. I Only Believe In Poetry.

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I Despise My Own Hypersensitiveness, Which Requires So Much Reassurance. It Is Certainly Abnormal To Crave So Much To Be Loved And Understood.

Guilt Is The One Burden Human Beings Can't Bear Alone.

I Have So Strong A Sense Of Creation, Of Tomorrow, That I Cannot Get Drunk, Knowing I Will Be Less Alive, Less Well, Less Creative The Next Day.

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What Can I Do With My Happiness? How Can I Keep It, Conceal It, Bury It Where I May Never Lose It? I Want To Kneel As It Falls Over Me Like Rain, Gather It Up With Lace And Silk, And Press It Over Myself Again.

She Walked In The Shadow Of Rango With A Great Feeling Of Being Taken Out Of Herself, Of Having No Knowledge Of What Was Happening To Her, Merely A Pervading Sense Of Flow.

For Too Many Centuries Women Have Been Being Muses To Artists. I Wanted To Be The Muse, I Wanted To Be The Wife Of The Artist, But I Was Really Trying To Avoid The Final Issue — That I Had To Do The Job Myself.

We Are Beginning To See The Influence Of Dream Upon Reality And Reality Upon Dream.

Create A World, Your World. Alone. Stand Alone. And Then Love Will Come To You, Then It Comes To You.

There Are Only Two Kinds Of Freedom In The World; The Freedom Of The Rich And Powerful, And The Freedom Of The Artist And The Monk Who Renounces Possessions.

We Are Like Sculptors, Constantly Carving Out Of Others The Image We Long For, Need, Love Or Desire, Often Against Reality, Against Their Benefit, And Always, In The End, A Disappointment, Because It Does Not Fit Them.

The Failures Are Not Due To Any Injustice, But To An Inner Defect. It Is Always Caused By The Person Himself. Yes, I Know, You Think You Are Doing An Act Of Justice. But They Will Only Suck You Dry, Wear Out Your Energy, Nourish Themselves On Your Ideas. After Being The Most Compassionate Man In The World, I Say To You Today: Let The Weak Ones Die, Let Them Commit Suicide.

Writers Do Not Live One Life, They Live Two. There Is The Living And Then There Is The Writing. There Is The Second Tasting, The Delayed Reaction.

I Don't Wish Power, Only Art -art And Passion.

Things Aren't The Way They Are, They're The Way You Are

We Love Best Those Who Are, Or Act For Us, A Self We Do Not Wish To Be Or Act Out.

Our Culture Made A Virtue Of Living Only As Extroverts. We Discouraged The Inner Journey, The Quest For A Center. So We Lost Our Center And Have To Find It Again.

The Cynic Is A Coward. He Foresees All Barrenness So That Barrenness Can Never Surprise Him.

The Preoccupation Of The Novelist: How To Capture The Living Moments, Was Answered By The Diary. You Write While You Are Alive. You Do Not Preserve Them In Alcohol Until The Moment You Are Ready To Write About Them.

Live In The Moment

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.

The Only Abnormality Is The Incapacity To Love.

Paris-new York, The Two High Tension Magnetic Poles Between Life, Life Of The Senses, Of The Spirit In Paris, And Life In Action In New York.

I Made No Resolutions For The New Year. The Habit Of Making Plans, Of Criticizing, Sanctioning And Molding My Life, Is Too Much Of A Daily Event For Me.

Atrophy Of Feeling Creates Criminals.

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?

I Love Man As Creator, Lover, Husband, Friend, But Man The Father I Do Not Trust. I Do Not Believe In Man As Father. I Do Not Trust Man As Father.

No One Was Ever Born Without That Light Or Flame Of Life. Some Event, Some Person Stifles Or Drowns It Altogether. I Was Always Tempted To Resuscitate Such Men By My Own Joyousness Or Luminosity.when I Break Glasses In A Night Club, As The Russians Do, When My Unconscious Breaks Out In Wild Rebellions, It Is Against Life Which Has Crippled These Idealistic, Romantic Men. I Respect These Men, Cold, Pure, Faithful, Devoted, Moral, Delicate, Sensitive, And Unequal To Life, More Than I Respect The Tough-minded Ones Who Return Three Blows To One Received, Who Kill Those Who Hurt Them.

What I Cannot Love, I Overlook. Is That Real Friendship?

I’m Restless. Things Are Calling Me Away. My Hair Is Being Pulled By The Stars Again.

The Morning I Got Up To Begin This Book I Coughed. Something Was Coming Out Of My Throat: It Was Strangling Me. I Broke The Thread Which Held It And Yanked It Out. I Went Back To Bed And Said: I Have Just Spat Out My Heart.

She Makes Use Of The Soft Of The Bread For A Napkin. She Falls Asleep At Times With Shoes On, On Unmade Beds. When A Little Money Comes In, June Buys Delicacies, Strawberries In The Winter, Caviar And Bath Salts.

Life, Religion And Art All Converge In Bali. They Have No Word In Their Language For 'artist' Or 'art.' Everyone Is An Artist.

I Must Be A Mermaid, Rango. I Have No Fear Of Depths And A Great Fear Of Shallow Living.

I Must Know, He Thinks. It Must Be Clear To Me. There Is A World Which Is Closed To Him, A World Of Shadings, Gradations, Nuances, And Subtleties. He Is A Genius And Yet He Is Too Explicit. June Slips Between His Fingers. You Cannot Posses Without Loving.

Coming Near Him Like A Ballet Dancer She Took A Leap Towards Him, And He, Frightened By Her Vehemence, And Fearing That She Would Crash Against Him, Instinctively Became Absolutely Rigid, And She Felt Herself Embracing A Statue.

This Great Handsomeness I Took Into Myself Later When He Desired Me, But I Took It As One Breathes Air, Or Swallows A Snowflake, Or Yields To The Sun.

Whenever You Do Something That Is Not Aligned With The Yearning Or Your Soul—you Create Suffering.

I Often See How You Sob Over What You Destroy, How You Want To Stop And Just Worship; And You Do Stop, And Then A Moment Later You Are At It Again With A Knife, Like A Surgeon.

We Have Been Poisoned By Fairy Tales.

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.

Either One Fails In One's Art Or In One's Life.

I Cannot Concentrate All My Friendship On Any Single One Of My Friends Because No One Is Complete Enough In Himself.

Cute Best Friend

Poetry, Which Is Our Relation To The Senses, Enables Us To Retain A Living Relationship To All Things. It Is The Quickest Means Of Transportation To Reach Dimensions Above Or Beyond The Traps Set By The So-called Realists. It Is A Way To Learn Levitation And Travel In Liberated Continents, To Travel By Moonlight As Well As Sunlight.

Balance Is Not To Be Sought By Association With Others; It Must Exist Within One's Self.

Worlds Self Made Are So Full Of Monsters And Demons.

All Unlived Emotions Turn To Inanity.

To Lie, Of Course, Is To Engender Insanity.

Had I Not Created My Whole World, I Would Certainly Have Died In Other People’s.

We Don't See Things As They Are, We See Them As We ... Believe Me Naïve Or Innocent, Who Has The Courage To Treat Me Like A Woman.

I Had Been Struck By The Analogy Between Neurosis And Romanticism. Romanticism Was Truly A Parallel To Neurosis. It Demanded Of Reality An Illusory World, Love, An Absolute Which It Could Never Obtain, And Thus Destroyed Itself By The Dream.

When You Make A World Tolerable For Yourself, You Make A World Tolerable For Others.

Strange, Isn't It, That No Chemical Will Give A Human Being The Iridescence That Illusions Have Given Them? Give Me Your Hat.

We Speak Of The Masculine And The Feminine, But They Are The Wrong Labels. It Is Really More A Matter Of Poetry Versus Intellectualization.

Our Age Has Need Of Violence," He Writes. And He Is Violence.

The Frenchman, By Nature, Is Sensuous And Sensitive. He Has Intelligence, Which Makes Him Tired Of Life Sooner Than Other Kinds Of Men. He Is Not Athletic: He Sees The Futility Of The Pursuit Of Fame; The Climate At Times Depresses Him.

Jazz Is The Music Of The Body.

New York Has An Electronic Heart.

The Source Of Sexual Power Is Curiosity, Passion. You Are Watching Its Little Flame Die Of Asphyxiation.

Anxiety Is Loves Greatest Killer.

I Needed To Live, But I Also Needed To Record What I Lived.

It's All Right For A Woman To Be, Above All, Human. I Am A Woman First Of All.

The Enemy Of A Love Is Never Outside, It's Not A Man Or Woman, It's What We Lack In Ourselves.

What We Call Our Destiny Is Truly Our Character And That Character Can Be Altered. The Knowledge That We Are Responsible For Our Actions And Attitudes Does Not Need To Be Discouraging, Because It Also Means That We Are Free To Change This Destiny. One Is Not In Bondage To The Past, Which Has Shaped Our Feelings, To Race, Inheritance, Background. All This Can Be Altered If We Have The Courage To Examine How It Formed Us. We Can Alter The Chemistry Provided We Have The Courage To Dissect The Elements.

We Don't See Things As They Are, We See Them As We Are." Life Shrinks Or Expands In Proportion To One's Courage "people Living Deeply Have No Fear Of Death.

Inspirational Life

Writing More And More To The Sound Of Music, Writing More And More Like Music. Sitting In My Studio Tonight, Playing Record After Record, Writing, Music A Stimulant Of The Highest Order, Far More Potent Than Wine.

The Body Is An Instrument Which Only Gives Off Music When It Is Used As A Body.

Not Afraid Of Poverty And Drabness And Who Is Untouched By It, Untouched By The Drunkenness Of Her Friends; (she) Who Judges, Selects, Discards People With Severity, Who Knows, When She Is Telling Her Endless Anecdotes, That They Are Ways Of Escape, Keeping Herself All The More Secret Behind That Profuse Talk.

He Has, Like Me, A Sense Of Smell. I Let Him Inhale Me, Then I Slip Away.

The Shell Is America's Most Active Contribution To The Formation Of Character. A Tough Hide. Grow It Early.

If I Fall Asleep, It Is Because I Am Overloaded. I Sleep Because One Hour With Henry Contains Five Years Of My Life, And One Phrase, One Caress Answers The Expectations Of A Hundred Nights. When I Hear Him Laugh, I Say, "i Have Heard Rabelais.". And I Swallow His Laughter Like Bread And Wine.

Life Is A Full Circle, Widening Until It Joins The Circle Motions Of The Infinite.

That Is My Essential Reason For Writing, Not For Fame, Not To Be Celebrated After Death, But To Heighten And Create Life All Around Me. I Also Write Because When I Am Writing I Reach The High Moment Of Fusion Sought By The Mystics, The Poets, The Lovers, A Sense Of Communion With The Universe.

I Would Like To Have Your Sureness. I Am Waiting For Love, The Core Of A Woman's Life." Don't Wait For It," I Said. "create A World, Your World. Alone. Stand Alone. And Then Love Will Come To You, Then It Comes To You. It Was Only When I Wrote My First Book That The World I Wanted To Live In Opened To Me.

I Love Your Silences, They Are Like Mine. You Are The Only Being Before Whom I Am Not Distressed By My Own Silences. You Have A Vehement Silence, One Feels It Is Charged With Essences, It Is A Strangely Alive Silence, Like A Trap Open Over A Well, From Which One Can Hear The Secret Murmur Of The Earth Itself.

One May Gain One Truth At The Expense Of Another.

The Woman Will Sit Eternally In The Tall Black Armchair. I Will Be The One Woman You Will Never Have...excessive Living Weighs Down The Imagination: We Will Not Live, We Will Only Write And Talk To Swell The Sails.

I Want To Be A Writer Who Reminds Others That These Moments Exist; I Want To Prove That There Is Infinite Space, Infinite Meaning, Infinite Dimension

Our Love Lives Because I Live.

Anxiety Is Love's Greatest Killer, Because It Is Like The Stranglehold Of The Drowning.

Women Always Think That When They Have My Shoes, My Dress, My Hairdresser, My Makeup, It Will All Work The Same Way. They Do Not Conceive Of The Witchcraft That Is Needed. They Do Not Know That I Am Not Beautiful But That I Only Appear To Be At Certain Moments.

I Find That Life, Day By Day, Is Composed Of At Least One Joy, One Problem And One Sorrow. Then There Are The Smaller Ingredients: You Always Learn Something, Whether Useful Or Harmful - That Is Difficult To Analyze Until Later; You Always Give Something; You Alwayou Always Grow A Little In One Direction Or Another.

Ordinary Life Does Not Interest Me. I Seek Only The High Moments. I Am In Accord With The Surrealists, Searching For The Marvelous. I Want To Be A Writer Who Reminds Others That These Moments Exist; I Want To Prove That There Is Infinite Space, Infinite Meaning, Infinite Dimension. But I Am Not Always In What I Call A State Of Grace. I Have Days Of Illuminations And Fevers. I Have Days When The Music In My Head Stops. Then I Mend Socks, Prune Trees, Can Fruits, Polish Furniture. But While I Am Doing This I Feel I Am Not Living.

I Believe One Writes Because One Has To Create A World In Which One Can Live.

The Value Of The Personal Relationship To All Things Is That It Creates Intimacy And Intimacy Creates Understanding And Understanding Creates Love.

Talk—half-talk, Phrases That Had No Need To Be Finished, Abstractions, Chinese Bells Played On With Cotton-tipped Sticks, Mock Orange Blossoms Painted On Porcelain. The Muffled, Close, Half-talk Of Soft-fleshed Women. The Men She Had Embraced, And The Women, All Washing Against The Resonance Of My Memory. Sound Within Sound, Scene Within Scene, Woman Within Woman—like Acid Revealing An Invisible Script. One Woman Within Another Eternally, In A Far-reaching Procession, Shattering My Mind Into Fragments, Into Quarter Tones Which No Orchestral Baton Can Ever Make Whole Again.

Secrets. Need To Disguise. The Novel Was Born Of This.

The Richest Source Of Creation Is Feeling, Followed By A Vision Of Its Meaning.

The Monster I Kill Every Day Is The Monster Of Realism. The Monster Who Attacks Me Every Day Is Destruction. Out Of The Duel Comes The Transformation. I Turn Destruction Into Creation Over And Over Again.

I Believe That Men Are Generally Still A Little Afraid Of The Dark Though The Witches Are All Hung, And Christianity And Candles Have Been Introduced.

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.

She Had Acquired Some Of His Gypsy Ways, Some Of His Nonchalance, His Bohemian Indiscipline. She Had Swung With Him Into The Disorders Of Strewn Clothes, Spilled Cigarette Ashes, Slipping Into Bed All Dressed, Falling Asleep Thus, Indolence, Timelessness...a Region Of Chaos And Moonlight. She Liked It There.

I Told Her, "we Have Both Lost Ourselves, But Sometimes We Reveal The Most When We Are Least Like Ourselves. I Am Not Trying To Think Any More. I Can't Think When I Am With You. You Are Like Me, Wishing For A Perfect Moment, But Nothing Too Long Imagined Can Be Perfect In A Worldly Way. Neither One Of Us Can Say Just The Right Thing. We Are Overwhelmed. Let Us Be Overwhelmed. It Is So Lovely, So Lovely. I Love You June.

I Say Quotations Are Literary. They Are Good Only When Dealing With Ideas, Not With Experience. Experience Should Be Pure, Unique.

Each Friend Represents A World In Us.

The Final Lesson A Writer Learns Is That Everything Can Nourish The Writer. The Dictionary, A New Word, A Voyage, An Encounter, A Talk On The Street, A Book, A Phrase Learned.

It Is Easy To Love And There Are So Many Ways To Do It.

Don't Let One Cloud Obliterate The Whole Sky.

Positive Thinking

Some People Read To Confirm Their Own Hopelessness. Others Read To Be Rescued From It.

Out Of The Red And Silver And The Long Cry Of Alarm To The Poet Who Survives In All Human Beings, As The Child Survives In Him; To This Poet She Threw An Unexpected Ladder In The Middle Of The City And Ordained, 'climb!

It Takes Courage To Push Yourself To Places You Have Never Been Before... To Test Your Limits... To Break Through Barriers. And The Day Came When The Risk It Took To Stay Tight Inside The Bud Was More Painful Than The Risk It Took To Blossom.

Truth Is Something Which Can't Be Told In A Few Words. Those Who Simplify The Universe Only Reduce The Expansion Of Its Meaning.

The Role Of The Writer Is Not To Say What We Can All Say, But What We Are Unable To Say. Most Of The Writing Today Which Is Called Fiction Contains Such A Poverty Of Language, Such Triteness, That It Is A Shrunken, Diminished World We Enter, Poorer And More Formless Than The Poorest Cripple Deprived Of Ears And Eyes And Tongue. The Writer's Responsibility Is To Increase, Develop Our Senses, Expand Our Vision, Heighten Our Awareness And Enrich Our Articulateness.

When One Is Pretending The Entire Body Revolts.

Only When The Poet And The Scientist Work In Unison Will We Have Living Experiences And Knowledge Of The Marvels Of The Universe As They Are Being Discovered.

How Well I Know With What Burning Intensity You Live. You Have Experienced Many Lives Already, Including Several You Have Shared With Me- Full Rich Lives From Birth To Death, And You Just Have To Have These Rest Periods In Between.

My Mission, Should I Choose To Accept It, Is To Find Peace With Exactly Who And What I Am. To Take Pride In My Thoughts, My Appearance, My Talents, My Flaws And To Stop This Incessant Worrying That I Can’t Be Loved As I Am.

The Obstacle Became His Alibi For Weakness.

Jazz Is The Expression Of America's Romantic Self, Its Sensual Potency, Its Lyrical Force.

We Do Not See The World As It Is. We See The Word As We Are.

Don't Say Anything, Because I See That You Understand Me, And I Am Afraid Of Your Understanding. I Have Such A Fear Of Finding Another Like Myself, And Such A Desire To Find One! I Am So Utterly Lonely, But I Also Have Such A Fear That My Isolation Be Broken Through, And I No Longer Be The Head And Ruler Of My Universe. I Am In Great Terror Of Your Understanding By Which You Penetrate Into My World; And Then I Stand Revealed And I Have To Share My Kingdom With You.

We Write To Taste Life Twice, In The Moment, And In Retrospection.

The Softness Of The Summer Day Like An Ermine Paw.

Notes Fly So Much Farther Than Words. There Is No Other Way To Reach The Infinite.

I Palliate The Sufferings Of Others. Yes I See Myself As Softening The Blows, Dissolving Acids, Neutralizing Poisons, Every Moment Of The Day. I Try To Fulfill The Wishes Of Others, To Perform Miracles. I Exert Myself Performing Miracles.

Suffering Of Others

One Discovers That Destiny Can Be Diverted, That One Does Not Have To Remain In Bondage To The First Wax Imprint Made On Childhood Sensibilities. Once The Deforming Mirror Has Been Smashed, There Is A Possibility Of Wholeness. There Is A Possibility Of Joy.

When I Don't Write, I Feel My World Shrink. I Lose My Fire, My Color.

In Each Studio There Is A Human Being Dressed In The Full Regalia Of His Myth Fearing To Expore A Vulnerable Opening, Spreading Not His Charms But His Defences, Plotting To Disrobe, Somewhere Along The Night-- His Body Without The Aperture Of The Heart Or His Heart With A Door Closed To His Body. Thus Keeping One Compartment For Refuge, One Uninvaded Cell.

I Seek The Real Stuff Of Life. Profound Drama.

She Acquired The Certainty Of The Expansion Of Time By Depth Of Emotion, Range And Infinite Multiplicity Of Experience.

One Handles Truths Like Dynamite.

Acapulco In The Sunset Seems Like A Balm; It Enters The Blood Like A Drug After One Inhalation Of The Scent Of Flowers, One Glimpse Of The Bay Iridescent Like Silk, The Sunset Like The Inside Of A Shell, So Much Like The Flesh Of Venus.

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Franz Grillparzer

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