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

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.

If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.

What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.

I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor or pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.