“Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.”

She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.

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.

Tranquillity is contagious, peace is contagious. One only thinks of the contagiousness of illness, but there is the contagion of serenity and joy.

I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.

Passion gives me moments of wholeness.

The only transformer and alchemist that turns everything into gold is love. The only magic against death, aging, ordinary life, is love.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

Life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity and stumble from defeat to defeat.

We are beginning to see the influence of dream upon reality and reality upon dream.

We have been poisoned by fairy tales.

Do not seek the because – in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions.

Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.

It is a sign of great inner insecurity to be hostile to the unfamiliar.

I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

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.