We commit two wrongs when we fail to right a wrong.

Artists are the monks of the bourgeois state.

Reality is a prison, where one vegetates and always will.

The cadence of suffering has begun. Every evening at dusk, my heart constricts until night has come.

For women, history does not exist. Murasaki, Sappho, and Madame Lafayette might be their own contemporaries.

At great periods you have always felt, deep within you, the temptation to commit suicide. You gave yourself to it, breached your own defenses. You were a child. The idea of suicide was a protest against life; by dying, you would escape this longing for death.

Dawn's faint breath breathes with your mouth at the ends of empty streets. Gray light your eyes, sweet drops of dawn on dark hills. Your steps and breath like the wind of dawn smother houses. The city shudders, Stones exhale— you are life, an awakening. Star lost in the light of dawn, trill of the breeze, warmth, breath— the night is done. You are light and morning.