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?

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.

Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.

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

Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air Reach to its rest, and fall.

All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.