I will write myself into well-being.

Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead, doubtless two of the most exquisitely adolescent of fictions.

If only we could have them back as babies today, now that we have some idea what to do with them.

In a society that prates about, but seldom practices, communication, the craving to be listened to, heard, understood - which originates with the first terrified wail, the circling arms, the breast, the consolatory murmur - is hard to assuage.

A line, once crossed, can never be uncrossed.

In the grammar of the phallus -- the I, I, I -- [woman] can't utter female experience.

Do others, I wondered, "see things as I do? I do not think so, for if they did they would not still be alive." And, life-threatening though my vision seemed, I would not repudiate it: "Sometimes I think I shall die from being different even as I cling to the difference fiercely."