In one sense I feel that my book is a one-woman argument against determinism.

I think artists can go to a level of vision that can often save us from a situation which seems to have no solution whatsoever.

But still, the other voice, the intuitive, returns, like grass forcing its way through concrete.

Perhaps every moment of time lived in human consciousness remains in the air around us.

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

we are nature. We are nature seeing nature. We are nature with a concept of nature. Nature weeping. Nature speaking of nature to nature.

To make love is to become like this infant again. We grope with our mouths toward the body of another being, whom we trust, who takes us in her arms. We rock together with this loved one. We move beyond speech. Our bodies move past all the controls we have learned. We cry out in ecstasy, in feeling. We are back in a natural world before culture tried to erase our experience of nature. In this world, to touch another is to express love; there is no idea apart from feeling, and no feeling which does not ring through our bodies and our souls at once.