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

I dreamed horse and lived horse and expected, if necessary, to marry a horse; for all practical purposes I was a horse.

And here is our girl, looking-- If possible, worse than before. (You thought this was Cinderella transistorized?)

Passing in any crowd are secret people whose hidden response to beauty is the desire to tear it into bleeding meat.

Anyone who shoots a real gun at you when drunk and angry is simply not husband material, regardless of his taste in literature.

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

Any chance beats no chance.