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

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

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.

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

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

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

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