I have always known that there were spellbinding evil parts for women. For one thing, I was taken at an early age to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Never mind the Protestant work ethic of the dwarfs. Never mind the tedious housework-is-virtuous motif. Never mind the fact that Snow White is a vampire -- anyone who lies in a glass coffin without decaying and then comes to life again must be. The truth is that I was paralysed by the scene in which the evil queen drinks the magic potion and changes her shape. What power, what untold possibilities!

We shouldn't be saying 'Save the planet'; we should be saying: 'Save viable conditions in which people can live.' That's what we're dealing with here.

We battled in secret, undeclared, and after a while I no longer fought back because I never won. The only defense was flight, invisibility.

We pulled the seeds out and scattered them on their flossy parachutes, leaving only the leathery brownish yellow tongue, soft as the inside of an elbow.

You can't keep a cool head when you're drowning in love. You just trash around a lot and scream, and wear yourself out.

They seemed to be able to choose. We seemed to be able to choose, then. We were a society dying of too much choice.

Menopause. A pause while you reconsider men.