Why should men be allowed to strut under the privilege of their life adventures, wearing them like a breast full of medals, while women went all gray and silent beneath the weight of theirs?

Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.

I'm concerned about the unknowability of other people.

A woman's life isn't worth a plateful of cabbage if she hasn't felt life stir under her heart. Taking a little one to nurse, watching him grow to manhood, that's what love is.

Why should men be allowed to strut under the privilege of their life adventures, wearing them like a breast full of medals, while women went all gray and silent beneath the weight of theirs?

This is why I read novels: so I can escape my own unrelenting monologue.

The scolding voice is her own, so abrasive and quick, yet so powerless to move her.