Often, though, the passivity of the woman's role weighs on me, suffocates me. Rather than wait for his pleasure, I would like to take it, to run wild. Is it that which pushes me into lesbianism? It terrifies me. Do women act thus? Does June go to Henry when she wants him? Does she mount him? Does she wait for him? He guides my inexperienced hands. It is like a forest fire, to be with him. New places of my body are aroused and burnt. He is incendiary. I leave him in an unquenchable fever.
America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.
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.
I spell 'god' with a small 'g' because I do not believe in him, but I love to swear by him.
..he made me understand something very important. Whether because I am a Latin, or because I am a neurotic, I have a need of gestures. I am myself expressive, demonstrative; every feeling I have takes on expression: words, gestures, signs, letters, articulateness or action. I need this in others.
The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body.
Keeping a Diary all my life helped me to discover some basic elements essential to the vitality of writing.
He understands my pity for his ridiculous, humiliating physical necessity.
At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.
Jeanne, I fell asleep among the paintings, where I could sit for many days worshipping your portrait. I fell in love with your portrait, Jeanne, because it will never change. I have such a fear of seeing you grow old, Jeanne, I fell in love with an unchanging you that will never be taken away from me. I was wishing you would die, so that no one could take you away from me, and I would love the painting of you as you would look eternally.
You marry the day you realize the human defects of your love.
The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw.
The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.
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.
Why do I doubt her? Perhaps she is just very sensitive, and hypersensitive people are false when others doubt them; they waver. And one thinks them insincere. Yet I want to believe her. At the same time it does not seem so very important that she should love me. It is not her role. I am so filled with my love of her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.
Again I take a taxi to Clichy address, but feel that I do not want to go on loving Henry more actively than he loves me (having realized that nobody will ever love me in that overabundant, overexpressive, overthoughtful, overhuman way I love people), and so I will wait for him. So I ask taxi driver to drop me at the Galeries Lafayette, where I begin to look for a new hat and to shop for Christmas. Pride? I don't know. A kind of wise retreat. I need people too much. So I bury my gigantic defect, my overflow of love, under trivialities, like a child. I amuse myself with a new hat.
He has, like me, a sense of smell. I let him inhale me, then I slip away.
atrophy of feeling creates criminals.
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.
I want to make my own discoveries…….penetrate the evil which attracts me
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: