Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.

And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I'd cry for a week.

I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them." (Initiation)

I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.

Because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street caf� in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.

What did my arms do before they held you?

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

Dying is an art. Like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I have a call.

I am still so na�ve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.