I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground, Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.

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

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.

True revolutions in art restore more than they destroy.

...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.

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

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.