A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again
My life is slowed up by thought and the need to understand what I am living.
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.
The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.
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 can't resist it, my whole being melts in one kiss, my knowledge melts, my fears melt, my blood dances, my legs open.
When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.
Only in the fever of creation could she recreate her own lost life.
Most fiction writers uses dreams decoratively without relating them to daily life, but the contemporary writer is becoming more expert at detecting the influence of one upon the other.
This abdiction of life demanded of the artist is to be achieved only relatively. Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.
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.
Experience teaches acceptance of the imperfect as life.
Passivity, like the passivity of India induced by religion, is destructive both to human life and to art.
The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation.
What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?
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