I cannot teach -- if I teach as teaching should be I become so exhausted I nearly die, I seem to have no middle gear.

Man is an animal whose dreams come true and kill him.

You know, exams are like war -- the birth rate of ideas goes up. Anything to keep from this dismal regimen, says poor mind, and hopefully tosses up another distraction.

You can understand why a system would seek information - but why in hell does it offer information? Why do we strive to be understood? Why is a refusal to accept communication so painful?

Being, I imagine, must be very simple. It is Becoming which is so messy and which I am all for.

The only way I can possibly heat my so-called mind up to working temperature is to imagine I'm talking to someone I admire.

I've had too many experiences in my life of being the first woman in some damned occupation.