Like all my family and class, I considered it a sign of weakness to show affection; to have been caught kissing my mother would have been a disgrace, and to have shown affection for my father would have been a disaster.

To die would have been beautiful. But I belong to those who do not die for the sake of beauty.

When I was a girl, the West was still young, and the law of force, of physical force, was dominant.

In the little hall leading to it was a rack holding various Socialist or radical newspapers, tracts, and pamphlets in very small print and on very bad paper. The subjects treated were technical Marxist theories.

I feel like a person living on the brink of a volcano crater.

But I see no reason why a woman should not grow and develop in all those outlets which are suited to her nature, it matters not at all what they may be.

And the woman who could win the respect of man was often the woman who could knock him down with her bare fists and sit on him until he yelled for help.