I know I am made from this earth, as my mother's hands were made from this earth, as her dreams came from this earth and all that I know, I know in this earth, the body of the bird, this pen, this paper, these hands, this tongue speaking, all that I know speaks to me through this earth.

It is a grief over the fate of the Earth that contains within it a joyful hope, that we might reclaim this Earth.

Ordinary women attempt to change our bodies to resemble a pornographic ideal. Ordinary women construct a false self and come to hate this self.

I am not so different in my history of abandonment from anyone else after all. We have all been split away from the earth, each other, ourselves.

A story is told as much by silence as by speech.

The mind can forget what the body, defined by each breath, subject to the heart beating, does not.

Is it a coincidence that stories from the private life became more popular just as the grand hope for public redemption through revolution was beginning to sour? I witnessed a similar shift in taste in my own time. In the 1960s, while a hopeful vision of a just society arose again, countless poems and plays concerning politics and public life were written, read, and performed. But after the hope diminished and public life seemed less and less trustworthy, this subject was less in style.