Henry ja June

But, as Allendy points out, balance is not to be sought by association with others; it must exist within one's self.

I have a sleepless night, with nerve-wracking pain, thinking of Jung's wise words: "Let things happen".

I do not want solitude, introspection, work. I want pleasure.

Love reduces the complexity of living.

The streets of Paris belong to him, the cafes and the whores. Modern writing belongs to him; he does it better than any. Every potency, from the whip of the wind to the revolution, belongs to him.

I want to kiss a man whose passion rushes like lava through a chill intellectual world.

He is lying in bed, body arched against my back, his arm around my breast. And in the circumference of my solitude I know I have found a moment of absolute love.

My work stabilizes me, I utilize my sufferings, but I would like to confide to a human being what I confide to my journal.

Henry, save me from beautification, from horrors of static perfection. Precipitate me into the inferno.

Henry has killed my seriousness. It couldn't survive his changing moods, from beggar to god, from satyr to poet, from madman to realist.