Measure the hate you feel now, and the shame. That quantity is your capacity also to love and to feel joy and to have compassion.

The creative strength is good enough and deep enough to bring itself to flower and to grow in spite of this sickness.

What do you do with mother love and mother wit when the babies are grown and gone away?

The woman was sane; she accepted the heavy penalties of reality and enjoyed its gifts also.

At least being nuts is being somewhere.

What cook can match herself against hunger and memory?

The rose-garden world of perfection is a lie and a bore too!