There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.

I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?