Beloved, you are my sister, you are my daughter, you are my face; you are me.

Narrative is radical, creating us at the very moment it is being created.

I don't think one parent can raise a child. I don't think two parents can raise a child. You really need the whole village.

You looked at me then like you knew me, and I thought it really was Eden, and I couldn't take your eyes in because I was loving the hoof marks on your cheeks.

I don't think I knew any of my father's friends - male friends - by their real names. I remember them only by their nicknames.

...fact was she knew more about them than she knew about herself, having never had the map to discover what she was like. Could she sing? (Was it nice to hear when she did?) Was she pretty? Was she a good friend? Could she have been a loving mother? A faithful wife? Have I got a sister and does she favor me? If my mother knew me would she like me? (140)

Anger is better. There is a sense of being in anger. A reality and presence. An awareness of worth. It is a lovely surging.