Real artists, it seems to me, are those who don't repeat themselves.

There are more whooping cranes in the United States of America than there are women in Congress.

And middle-class women, although taught to value established forms, are in the same position as the working class: neither can use established forms to express what the forms were never intended to express (and may very well operate to conceal).

Leaning her silly, beautiful, drunken head on my shoulder, she said, "Oh, Esther, I don't want to be a feminist. I don't enjoy it. It's no fun." "I know," I said. "I don't either." People think you decide to be a "radical," for God's sake, like deciding to be a librarian or a ship's chandler. You "make up your mind," you "commit yourself" (sounds like a mental hospital, doesn't it?). I said Don't worry, we could be buried together and have engraved on our tombstone the awful truth, which some day somebody will understand: WE WUZ PUSHED.

Minority art, vernacular art, is marginal art. Only on the margins does growth occur.

Sit a man on his ass with nothing to do but eat and the first thing that goes is his mind. It never fails.

The trouble with men is that they have limited minds. That's the trouble with women, too.