It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.

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

... politics are nothing but sand and gravel: it is art and life that feed us until we die. Everything else is ambition, hysteria or hatred.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

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