Perhaps this very instant is your time.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

... how much of our inner substance is it good for us to give to public griefs? The whole modern tendency to agonize over the suffering of the entire globe is surely something new.

It is through the acceptance of a variety of aethetic and intellectual points of view that a culture is given breadth and density.

But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?

Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.