She was thirty-nine. No, she did not envy her eighteen-year- old self at all. But she did envy, envied every day more bitterly, that young girl's genuine independence, largeness, scope, and courage.

Art is the Mirror of our betrayed ideals.

There's an unconscious bias in our society: girls are wonderful; boys are terrible. And to be a boy, or young man, growing up, having to listen to all this, it must be painful.

Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want.

Time and distance from the first and second world wars doesn't seem to lessen their horrors.

I treasure solitude. One doesn't have to have human contact.

A woman writer, quitting love before literature when love lets her down, will put literature before love.