The torment that so many young women know, bound hand and foot by love and motherhood, without having forgotten their former dreams.

A writer is hoisted up onto a pedestal only to scrutinize him more closely and conclude that it was a mistake to put him up there in the first place.

Because we are separated everything separates us, even our efforts to join each other.

Can one say that there is a way of crying out, of speaking, which is properly feminine? Personally, I don't think so. In the end, I find this is another way of putting women in a kind of singularity, a ghetto, which is not what I want. I want them to be singular and universal at the same time.

She would never change, but one day at the touch of a fingertip she would fall to dust.

To will oneself moral and to will oneself free are one and the same decision.

The writer can't stop her unconscious from showing up, that's certain.