A man with a talent does what is expected of him, makes his way, constructs, is an engineer, a composer, a builder of bridges. It's the natural order of things that he construct objects outside himself and his family. The woman who does so is aberrant. We have to expiate for this cursed talent someone handed out to us, by mistake, in the black mystery of genetics.

It always comes back to the same necessity: go deep enough and there is a bedrock of truth, however hard.

over and over again I am struck by the wordiness of modern poetry, as if language had replaced experience and must be more and more extreme, intricate and in a way divorced from life itself. It seems as if what we all need is a great purification - but how will that come about?

Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?

They are commiting murder who merely live.

True feeling justifies whatever it may cost.

Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be.