The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

What we suffer, what we endure, what we muff, what we kill, what we miss, what we are guilty of, is done by us, as individuals, in private.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.