I don't know why I started writing. I don't know why anybody does it. Maybe they're bored, or failures at something else.

If you think about some of the things that are being talked about by thoughtful, intelligent scientists, you realize that in 100 years the human race won't even be recognizable.

For even if you should have stood your ground, he said, yet what ground was it?

No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.

Word gets around when the circus comes to town, don't it?

The societies to which I have been exposed seemed to me largely machines for the suppression of women.

The wrath of God lies sleeping. It was hid a million years before men were and only men have the power to wake it.