She is the darker Venus, fed with burnt offering and blood-sacrifice...

i love them both! i think if you wish to be ethereal as if you have been displaced from a rehearsal of a midsummer night’s dream, the pale pink is lovely — but if you wish to be of a garden found in a tapestry, drowning in a murderous sun, the latter is perfect!

Beauty brings copies of itself into being.

After all, works of art are always the result of one’s having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, to where no one can go any further.

The cicadas? They just go on singing — singing loudly, singing incessantly — a long, enormously complicated, deeply-layered, entirely improvised ancient song, which is mostly about the morning, but also about the evening and the day but also the night and the sun but also the moon...

What will my happiness look like? What kind of happy woman will little Antigone be? What concessions will she have to make every day, only to sink her teeth into a small shred of happiness?