MATA HARI

I have encountered in this world riff-raff and good people. I lose. I win. I defend myself when I am attacked. I take when someone has taken from me. But I beg you to believe me; I have never done an act of espionage against France. Never. Never.

I was not content at home. . . I wanted to live like a colorful butterfly in the sun.

My dance is a sacred poem in which each movement is a word and whose every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced, for I am the temple.

Everything is an illusion.

I am a woman who enjoys herself very much; sometimes I lose, sometimes I win.

Death is nothing, nor life either, for that matter. To die, to sleep, to pass into nothingness, what does it matter? Everything is an illusion.

The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word.

I am a woman who enjoys herself very much; sometimes I lose, sometimes I win.

The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word.

I have encountered in this world riff-raff and good people. I lose. I win. I defend myself when I am attacked. I take when someone has taken from me. But I beg you to believe me; I have never done an act of espionage against France. Never. Never.

I was not content at home. . . I wanted to live like a colorful butterfly in the sun.

My dance is a sacred poem in which each movement is a word and whose every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced, for I am the temple.

Everything is an illusion.

Death is nothing, nor life either, for that matter. To die, to sleep, to pass into nothingness, what does it matter? Everything is an illusion.