Poems, like dreams, are a sort of royal road to the unconscious. They tell you what your secret self cannot express.
Erica JongFriends love misery, in fact. Sometimes, especially if we are too lucky or too successful or too pretty, our misery is the only thing that endears us to our friends.
Erica JongAll my forebears worked for a living. My grandfather painted portraits. My mother too. My aunt painted seascapes.
Erica JongO what is it about having one's own Babe upon one's Hip that makes a Woman wish to go home to her Mother? A Desire to say: 'Look, the Circle is compleat'? A Desire to say: 'Look, I have cross'd the Divide and now am more like you'? A Desire to say: 'Look, this Babe I offer you is my most precious Gift'?
Erica Jong