Woman must come of age by herself... She must find her true center alone.

I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.

It is a difficult lesson to learn today-to leave one's friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week. And yet, once it is done, I find there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before.

Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn't seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.

Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work. The curtain of mechanization has come down between the mind and the hand.

Duration is not a test of truth or falsehood.

Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.