“Red", I write "is the color of life. It's blood, passion, rage. It's menstrual flow and after birth. Beginnings and violent end. Red is the color of love. Beating hearts and hungry lips. Roses, Valentines, cherries. Red is the color of shame. Crimson cheeks and spilled blood. Broken hearts, opened veins. A burning desire to return to white.”

“I think Oscar Wilde wrote a poem about a robin who loved a white rose. He loved it so much that he pierced his breast and let his heart's blood turn the white rose red. Maybe this sounds very sentimental, but for anybody who has loved a career as much as I've loved mine, there can be no short cuts.”

“Red is the first color of spring. It's the real color of rebirth. Of beginning.”

“A White RoseThe red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.”

“And her sweet red lips on these lips of mineBurned like the ruby fire setIn the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wetWith the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.”

“And red is not the color of apples or roses or the dresses that pretty girls wear in the summertime.That is not the color of red at all.”

“The spirit of Italy has taken over my soul. I'm relaxed, happy, warm. It's as if i'm part of the earth, not just standing out it.”