To Write Is To Descend, To Excavate,

I Was Stirred Only Like A Leaf In The Wind, That Is All. . .

I Have No Brakes On...analysis Is For Those Who Are Paralyzed By Life.

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

I Really Believe That If I Were Not A Writer, Not A Creator, Not An Experimenter, I Might Have Been A Very Faithful Wife. I Think Highly Of Faithfulness. But My Temperament Belongs To The Writer, Not To The Woman

We Efface An Hour By Passionate Love, Without Twists, Without Aftertaste. When It Is Finished, It Is Not Finished, We Lie Still In Each Other's Arms Lulled By Our Love, By Tenderness -- Sensuality In Which The Whole Being Can Participate.