I Despise My Own Hypersensitiveness, Which Requires

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.

Perhaps The Only Magician We Have Is The Artist.

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.

The Two Men Who Have Done The Greatest Harm To The World Are Christ And Columbus. Christ Taught Us Guilt And Sacrifice, To Live Only In The Other World, And Columbus Discovered America And Materialism.

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.