On the day when it will be possible for woman to love not in her weakness but in her strength, not to escape herself but to find herself, not to abase herself but to assert herself--on that day love will become for her, as for man, a source of life and not of mortal danger.

History is a great cemetery: men, deeds, ideas are always dying as soon as they are born.

Literature takes its revenge on reality by making it the slave of fiction.

To be a woman, if not a defect, is at least a peculiarity.

Society, being codified by man, decrees that woman is inferior; she can do away with this inferiority only by destroying the male's superiority.

Picasso never thought of himself as avant-garde. I just find it a bad way to think of yourself.

Insects were scurrying about in the shade cast by the grass, and the lawn was a huge monotonous forest of thousands of little green blades, all equal, all alike, hiding the world from each other. Anguished, she thought, "I don't want to be just another blade of grass."