I remember, in hot floods, the way he slept, still as death, with his face washed flat, stony as a carved tomb and exquisite. His weakness and his ravening bitter needs were terrible, and beautiful, and irresistible as an earthquake. He scalded or smothered anyone he needed, but his needing and the hurt that it caused me were the most life I have ever had. Remember what a poor thing I have always been and forgive me.

We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

I think genetic research is a fascinating and fertile area.

Defining men as the perpetrators of all violence is a viciously immoral judgment of an entire gender. And defining women as inherently nonviolent condemns us to the equally restrictive role of sweet, meek, and weak.

Women who pay their own rent don't have to be nice.

American culture is torn between our long romance with violence and our terror of the devastation wrought by war and crime and environmental havoc.

There are parts of Texas where a fly lives 10,000 years and a man can't die soon enough.