Somewhere, within her, in a deep recess, crouched discontent. She began to lose confidence in the fullness of her life, the glow began to fade from her conception of it. As the days multiplied, her need of something, something vaguely familiar, but which she could not put a name to and hold for definite examination, became almost intolerable. She went through moments of overwhelming anguish. She felt shut in, trapped.

Authors do not supply imaginations.

What are friends for, if not to help bear our sins?

Authors do not supply imaginations, they expect their readers to have their own, and to use it

If sex isn't a joke, what is it?

I think being a mother is the cruelest thing in the world.

Everything can't be explained by some general biological phrase.