You may well ask how I expect to assert my privacy by resorting to the outrageous publicity of being one's actual self on paper. There's a possibility of it working if one chooses the terms, to wit: outshouting image-gimmick America through a quietly desperate search for self.

People have a right to their own lives, and if you can't help somebody, you ought to get out of their way.

To be a rebel is not to be a revolutionary. It is more often by a way of spinning one's wheels deeper in sand.

To love is simply to allow another to be, live, grow, expand, become. An appreciation that demands and expects nothing in return.

The concept of romantic love affords a means of emotional manipulation which the male is free to exploit, since love is the only circumstance in which the female is (ideologically) pardoned for sexual activity.

Perhaps nothing is so depressing an index of the inhumanity of the male-supremacist mentality as the fact that the more genial human traits are assigned to the underclass: affection, response to sympathy, kindness, cheerfulness.

It would appear that love is dead. Or very likely in a bad way.