Цитаты из книги Henry and June

"Чтобы быть благодарным, человек должен сначала научиться любить."

"Мы останемся в объятиях нашего воображения. "

"Life is foul, foul," he cries. And with these words he kisses me and awakens me, I who have been sleeping one hundred years, with hallucinations hanging like curtains of spider webs over my bed.

I want to answer you, not with weak or stupid poetry but with a wonder as strong as your reality. I want to fight your surgical knife with all the occult and magic forces of the world.

Champagne and caviar with June. It is the only time one knows what champagne and what caviar is.

What a secret language we talk, undertones, overtones, nuances, abstractions, symbols.

A startling white face, burning eyes. June Mansfield, Henry's wife. As she came towards me from the darkness of my garden into the light of the doorway I saw for the first time the most beautiful woman on earth.

There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don't work.

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.

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.