And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
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We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
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Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society's rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.
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The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation.
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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.
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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.
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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
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I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.
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I stopped loving my father a long time ago. What remained was the slavery to a pattern.
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I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles.
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Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.
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I looked with chameleon eyes upon the changing face of the world, looked with anonymous vision upon my uncompleted self.
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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.
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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.
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Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
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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.
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Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.
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Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back; a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.
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The personal, if it is deep enough, becomes universal, mythical, symbolic.
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We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.
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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.
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Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.
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When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.
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Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.
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The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.
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Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.
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We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are.
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