Near to the Wild Heart

When I suddenly see myself in the depths of the mirror, I take fright. I can scarcely believe that I have limits, that I am outlined and defined. I feel myself to be dispersed in the atmosphere, thinking inside other creatures, living inside things beyond myself. When I suddenly see myself in the mirror, I am not startled because I find myself ugly or beautiful. I discover, in fact, that I possess another quality. When I haven't looked at myself for some time, I almost forget that I am human, I tend to forget my past, and I find myself with the same deliverance from purpose and conscience as something that is barely alive. I am also surprised to find as I gaze into the pale mirror with open eyes that there is so much in me beyond what is known, so much that remains ever silent.

How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

Where does music go when it’s not playing?—she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: May they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.

Freedom isn't enough. What I desire doesn't have a name yet.

Never suffer because you don't have an opinion on this or that topic. Never suffer because you are not something or because you are.

The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.

She wanted even more: to be reborn always, to sever everything that she had learned, that she had seen, and inaugurate herself in new terrain where every tiny act had a meaning, where the air was breathed as if for the first time.

I see myself abandoned, solitary, thrown into a cell without dimensions, where light and shadows are silent phantoms. Within my inner self I find the silence I am seeking. But it leaves me so bereft of any memory of any human being and of me myself, that I transform this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. Were I to cry out — I can no longer see things clearly — my voice would receive the same indifferent echo from the walls of the earth.

I will surpass myself in waves, ah, Lord, and may everything come and fall upon me, even the incomprehension of myself at certain white moments because all I have to do is comply with myself and then nothing will block my path until death-without-fear, from any struggle or rest I will rise up as strong and beautiful as a young horse.

It is curious that I can't say who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can't say it.

I must not forget, I thought, that I have been happy, that I am being happier than one can be. But I forgot, I’ve always forgotten.

Even great men are only truly recognized and honored once they are dead. Why? Because those who praise them need to feel themselves somehow superior to the person praised, they need to feel they are making some concession.

- How does it feel to have a daughter? - At times it's like holding a warm egg in my hand.

Yes, she felt a perfect animal inside her. The thought of one day setting this animal loose disgusted her. Perhaps for fear of lack of aesthetic. Or dreading a revelation… No, no, she repeated, you mustn’t be afraid to create.

If the twinkling of the stars pains me, if this distant communication is possible, it is because something almost like a star quivers within me.

All of me swims, floats, crosses what exists with my nerves, I am nothing but a desire, anger, vagueness, as impalpable as energy. Energy? but where is my strength? in imprecision, in imprecision, in imprecision . .

my qualities are so small, the same of those of other men, my flaws, my negative side is beautiful and concave like an abyss. What I am not would leave an enormous hole in the earth.

She felt like a dry branch, sticking out of the air. Brittle, covered in old bark. Maybe she was thirsty, but there was no water nearby. And above all the suffocating certainty that if a man were to embrace her at that moment she would feel not a soft sweetness in her nerves, but lime juice stinging them, her body like wood near fire, warped, crackling, dry.

I was first drawn to you thinking you were going to teach me something more than that. I needed that which I sensed in you and which you have always denied.

Nothing happened if she kept waiting for what was going to happen .

But I’ve never known what to do with people and the things I like, sometimes they weigh me down, ever since I was a girl.

Nothing that I am not can interest me, it is impossible to be anything more than what you are.

In my interior I find the silence I seek.

The world rolls and somewhere out there are things I don’t know. Let us sleep on God and mystery, a quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, behold sleep.

The sea, the sea’s swell, silent and breathless.

When I surprise myself at the mirror I am not frightened because I think I am ugly or beautiful. It is because I discover I am of a different nature. After not having seen myself for a while I almost forget I am human, I forget my past and I am as free from end and awareness as something merely alive. I am also surprised, eyes open pale at the mirror, that there are so many things in me besides what I know, so many things always silent.

someone else dying, someone else listening to music, someone walked into a bathroom, that’s the world. I’m going to touch everyone, invite them to be moved by me.

How many times had she tipped the waiter more than necessary just because she’d remembered that he was going to die and didn’t know it.