Silence Moves Faster When It's Going Backward.

We Only Serve As A Model For The Portrait Of Our Fame.

Beauty Makes One Lose One's Head. Poetry Is Born Of This Decapitation

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.

What Uniform Can I Wear To Hide My Heavy Heart? It Is Too Heavy. It Will Always Show.

Commissions Suit Me. They Set Limits. Jean Marais Dared Me To Write Play In Which He Would Not Speak In The First Act, Would Weep For Joy In The Second And In The Last Would Fall Backward Down A Flight Of Stairs.