I was supposed to be women's lib, and now I'd exceeded it and gone over into international politics.

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. Nothing. No small talk, no anecdotes. Nothing can be risked on the board of talk. Because the inner voice is so urgent in its own discourse: How shall I live? How shall I manage the future? Why should I go on?

The image of the woman as we know it is an image created by men and fashioned to suit their needs.

How crazy craziness makes everyone, how irrationally afraid. The madness hidden in each of us, called to, identified, aroused like a lust. And against that the jaw sets. The more I fear my own insanity the more I must punish yours.

Psychiatry causes so much death

What is the future of the woman's movement How in the hell do I know I don't run it.

Many women do not recognize themselves as discriminated against; no better proof could be found of the totality of their conditioning.