'Ms.' is a syllable which sounds like a bumble bee is breaking wind.

This is my answer to the gap between ideas and action - I will write it out.

A happy childhood can't be cured. Mine'll hang around my neck like a rainbow, that's all, instead of a noose.

I don't suppose there's really any critic except posterity.

In a family, the same spoken lines come in over and over. Intimacy exhausts.

Every art is a church without communicants, presided over by a parish of the respectable. An artist is born kneeling; he fights to stand. A critic, by nature of the judgment seat, is born sitting.

The standard dreaming of a society has to be listened to.