In the mythic schema of all relations between men and women, man proposes, and woman is disposed of.

Among the monsters, I am well hidden; who looks for a leaf in a forest?

[T]ea, that uniquely English meal, that unnecessary collation at which no stimulants--neither alcohol nor meat--are served, that comforting repast of which to partake is as good as second childhood.

He was a lovely man in many ways. But he kept on insisting on forgiving me when there was nothing to forgive.

And, oh God, in my misspent youth as a housewife, I, too, used to bake bread, in those hectic and desolating days just prior to the woman's movement, when middle-class women were supposed to be wonderful wives and mothers, gracious hostesses.... I used to feel so womanly when I was baking my filthy bread.

Our fingernails match our toenails, match our lipstick match our rouge...The habit of applying warpaint outlasts the battle.

In a secular age, an authentic miracle must purport to be a hoax, in order to gain credit in the world.