In my sex fantasy, nobody ever loves me for my mind.

Washington is a city of locker-room boys, and all the old, outmoded notions apply: men and women are ushered to separate rooms after dinner, sex is dirty, and they are still serving onion-soup dip.

Consciousness-raising is at the very least supposed to bring about an intimacy, but what it seems instead to bring about are the trappings of intimacy, the illusion of intimacy, a semblance of intimacy.

I try to write parts for women that are as complicated and interesting as women actually are.

Food became, for dinner parties in the sixties, what abstract expressionism had been in the fifties.

Beware of men who cry. It's true that men who cry are sensitive to and in touch with feelings, but the only feelings they tend to be sensitive to and in touch with are their own.

You can't call yourself a feminist if you don't believe in the right to abortion.